Casting Shadows
by hyacinth beaver
Summary: A woman comes to Arthur's court seeking redemtpion for her past. She has spent her time too long in the shadows, but there is one Knight who wishes to set her free.
1. One : Calling Your Name

**Chapter One: Calling Your Name**

The room was bustling. Only three months after the coronation, the new High King Artorius Castus was already neck deep in the pains of politics. The bickering Briton Lords was far too much to bear. He looked around to see that his knights were bored as it is. They were not men of squabbling. Arthur and the Sarmatian Knights were men of action, not fit for the world of politics.

Lancelot seemed like the only one listening to any of it, only because there was nothing better to do. But you could see it in his eyes that he would rather bed a barmaid than listen to this drabble. If he wasn't in the hall at that very moment, Arthur had no doubt that that would exactly be Lancelot's activities for the evening.

Galahad was looking outside the window. There was a strange and fat looking bird outside it, sitting on the tree. He found it more amusing to watch the bird keep balance on the branch rather than be part of the bureaucratic nonsense that seemed to resonate from the room.

Gawain was not doing any better himself. He was playing with a dagger in his hand, cleaning some of his finger nails with it. It was surprising to see Gawain do this, because this sort of vanity could normally be seen from Lancelot.

Bors was dead in sleep. He was snoring as loud as an ox in his chair. It was not really hard to fall asleep despite the noise. It was by far, the perfect lullaby, and far more tranquil than the screaming of his children, especially eleven.

Finally, Tristan was over in the corner, stroking his hawk and feeding it bread crumbs he had in a pouch. At least, that was what he was doing before he heard Bors snort in his sleep and hit him straight across his bald head. He gave the faintest of smiles when Bors sprung to consciousness demanding to know who had hit him.

The hall was filled and the round table had never been fuller. This was the first time all of the Lords had gathered in one room, and Arthur was regretting ever having the idea. This was the start of a massive headache that would linger for the entire duration of the gathering.

"My Lords, we cannot cut up the land amongst ourselves as the Romans did. This is the Land of the people and we are in our esteemed positions to serve them, not to hurl them back into the fists of slavery." He stressed, ceasing the incessant talk among the bloodthirsty leaders.

There were more pressing matters ahead rather than the feudal wrangling that these group seemed to have in mind. The Saxons were gathering in numbers once more. Apparently, their defeat in Badon Hill was not enough to scare them off. With a new leader in throne, they were once again prepared to cut the throats of all who stood in their way.

"Let us go to the matter at hand, the true reason why we convened this evening, the Saxons." Arthur commanded, pounding on the table, making sure that all heard him.

"Aye!" Replied some of the Lords as they pounded the hilt of their swords on the table.

"I agree." Lancelot affirmed his commander. "The Saxons of the North are coming. It is not pretty. They are larger in numbers than ever before and we have not even replenished our forces." He spoke with urgency. Lancelot knew what the Saxons were capable off, he almost died by their hands. It was a stroke of nothing short of a miracle when he was saved from the pangs of death. For that he was thankful everyday, but it was bickering like this that made him wish that he had departed a long time ago.

"Lancelot speaks the truth. Our scouts say that the threat is larger than before. We cannot afford to be so unprepared when they come knocking at our doors. We must act." He emphasized. He was not going to let the death of so many of his Knights remain in vain. Briton had been united, and it would remain united as long as he had a say in it.

"I say we retreat, press South of the Wall until we have gathered enough men and supplies." Remarked Lycus, leader of the Roman Forces in the West. He was now also free of his service to the Empire and decided to stay in Briton with all of his lands intact. He was loyal to the new order, but was not so keen on Arthur being his sovereign, and he was definitely not coy in showing his discontent.

"Shut your arse trap Lycus!" A freshly awoken and heated up Bors replied. "Retreating to the South would mark death for all of us! The Saxons of the South may be small in number, but they can bloody well keep us occupied until their allies come!" He growled.

"I agree with Bors." Gawain drawled. "The Saxons in the South will run as down and weaken us, increasing the chance of defeat for when their brethren arrive." It was a hard fact to accept, but the truth is, they were trapped. The wall was by far the safest place they could be at right now. Leaving its protection would mean death.

"Then what do you suggest we do?" Lycus remarked, challenging both Arthur and the Knights who stood with him.

Squabbling emerged. The room was torn between those who sided with the Knights and those who thought it best to follow Lycus's advice. The voices erupted in protest and support.

"Will you have us die on the fields of battle!"

"Tis a warrior's death!"

"Well not mine!"

"We must think beyond the battle on to the future! We have better chances in the South!"

Before Arthur could silence them once more, the hall doors burst open. A woman stood at the threshold. Upon letting her enter, the servants immediately closed the doors behind her, fighting against the wind. The woman was of pale complexion. Her hair was as black as a raven's feathers. Her eyes were gray and hallow. Her skin still carried the blue marks of war that Woads often wore. As for her state, she seemed tired as if she had been ridding hard for many days. There was a mysterious air around this woman. She was greeted by the council with whispers and glares. She did not mind them and walked straight on.

"Who among you is Artorius Castus?" She asked, in a very hushed yet commanding voice. She scrutinized the room, looking into the eyes of the men present. She had no doubt that they did not know who she was, for that she was thankful. She did not need her reputation to haunt her at this very moment. She felt comfort in the shadows of anonymity.

Immediately, Arthur stood up and walked towards the woman, curious on why she had interrupted such an important meeting.

"Here." He called to her as he walked closer. "I am Arthur." He said, upon coming face to face with her.

"Arthur, High King of Briton?" She asked further, raising a skeptical eyebrow at the man who bore the title she had just doubted him to have. He seemed to have a face, too kind for a politician. She had known men of power to be far more arrogant and self-righteous than this man.

"Aye Lady, now may I ask who you are and why you interrupt us in our discourse." He asked in a polite manner.

"Go back to the bar wench!" Spoke one of the many Lords, only to be greeted by Arthur's glare. He did not know who this woman was, but he would not allow anyone to disrespect her in his presence.

She did not seem to mind the comments and whispers. She simply looked head on, no sign of intimidation within her. "Saxons knock on your door." She said in her same hushed voice.

"Tell us something we don't know wench!" Lycus shouted, erupting in some laughter from the other men in the room, even Bors.

"Silence Roman." She looked sharply at Lycus, threatening him with her glare. This woman seemed weak at that moment, but she looked as though she had a power within her, a presence, a commanding force. She turned back to Arthur and softened a little. "They are but a few months' ride from your citadel and I have no doubt that they will be here by the winter's first frost." She spoke. "I submit to the King of Briton and offer you my forces as my pledge. My allegiance is yours."

"Are you certain?" Arthur was stunned at the information she had just given them. He did not expect the Saxons to be that close. He thought that they would have had more time to prepare and obviously, he had been wrong. But then, she mentioned something else. "Forces my Lady?" Arthur said with mild curiosity. All he knew was that he had gathered all the commanders in the Isle. Another thing that caught his attention was that this was a woman; did she have an army at her beck and call?

"Aye my Lord." She nodded, reassuring him. "I have up to a little more than seventy strong. Don't be fooled by their small number, they have seen more bloodshed then some of the Romans that you have in this hall." She once again shot a sharp look at Lycus.

"Clearly the woman is mad Arthur. What army could she have? Who ever heard of a woman commanding an army?!" Lycus laughed at her.

"Rest assured Lord Lycus, that it is not such a folly as you think." A voice resonated from the back of the hall. It was Guinevere, the new Queen of Britain. She had a smile on her face, one that Arthur had yet to see on his bride. Instantly, Guinevere ran to the woman and threw her self unto a fierce embrace that one would expect of reunited acquaintances. "Alyanne!"

"Guinevere!" The woman spoke in great surprise at the quickened pace of events. "I thought you were dead." Alyanne spoke in the Woad tongue. She marveled as she tightened the embrace that they shared. Alyanne had been grieving for her for many moons and was now feeling more than elation upon seeing her current state of well-being. "Thank the heavens. I had lost all hope."

"Well, think on this as hope renewed."

"Pardon me, but I can't seem to follow." Arthur called the women's attention. "Guinevere, you know this woman?" He gestured to Alyanne.

"Aye Arthur!" She exclaimed, releasing the raven haired woman from her grasps. "She is of my kin, favored of Merlin, my cousin's wife, my former commander!" she elated.

"Your former commander?" The men asked in unison, especially the Knights.

"Aye. She is Alyanne, the Lady of the Lake, former commander of the Northern Woad forces. It was on her territory that we first defeated the Saxons and…" she swallowed. "where we saw Dagonet fall." She finished her statement with a heavy heart. Guinevere knew it was painful for her husband to remember the ordeal. "I fought beside her before I was captured." She said once again with darkness to her voice.

Alyanne could only stare at them in pain. Her eyes shut themselves almost involuntarily. The Lake. It had taken most of her life standing ground on that territory, making sure that no Saxon got through. She could see all of their faces as they floated on the shadowy waters. She could hear them plead for mercy. All the ghosts of her past. No. She opened her eyes. "She speaks the truth. But we no longer stand ground by the lake. I have moved my men towards here to protect the Wall. I rode ahead to announce their coming. They are but a few weeks behind me." She spoke, her voice getting weaker and weaker. She felt the room spinning around her and the heat engulfing her as if she had been thrown into a furnace.

"Your men?" Guinevere spoke once more in her native tongue. "You wield a sword once more?"

"There is little choice in the matter." Alyanne replied wearily.

"Kin to my wife and a commander of warriors! I must say that this is a wonderful surprise." He smiled. "You are very much welcome my Lady Alyanne and I eagerly welcome your allegiance." He laughed. The woman could not have come at a better time. Many Lords in the room rejoiced. More men could only mean a better chance at fighting off the Saxon horde. Though seventy men did not ensure a victory, the tipped the balances to better odds. Perhaps it was the elation of the moment that blinded people from the fact that Alyanne's face seemed to have had all blood drawn from it. She was white as a sheet.

"You are most gra---" she paused, feeling a faint. She fought it back and focused. "You are most gracious Arth---"She could not hold it any longer, before she could finish her sentence, Alyanne fell on the floors of the hall, unconscious.

**-o-**

Guinevere was pacing, her cousin had just fallen lifeless on the ground with not so much as a warning as to her condition. She immediately begged the Knights to pick her up and bring her to her rooms. It was Lancelot who acted quickly, swooping up the maiden in his arms and taking him to where his queen had directed. He walked up the stairs of the huge fortress, following Guinevere were she led, making sure not to stumble in his strides.

Finally, when they had reached the King and Queen's quarters, Alyanne was laid on the bed and Lancelot backed away from her, making space for Guinevere to examine her kin. Shortly, the other Knights arrived in the room, along with Arthur, all curious and concerned on what had just taken place.

"What has happened to her Guinevere?" Lancelot asked. He had seen women faint before but not like this. When he carried her, the woman seemed as light as a feather and he could see with this close proximity that she was paler than she seemed. Her face bore the markings of a true Woad warrior, but underneath, it seemed that only sadness could be traced, sadness that penetrated the depth of the skin.

"She is burning with fever." She said, her voice threatening the outburst of tears, held in by the fact that she had to remain calm about the entire matter. It was not often that the Lady Guinevere would lose her composure like this, but it seemed to all that she was immensely close to the woman who lay unconscious and thus there was no question as to her actions.

"Bragdon…" Alyanne mentioned in a faint voice. "Where is Bragdon?" she asked in her delirious state. She was weak, and yet managed to toss and turn in her distress. "Bragdon… Bragdon… Bragdon…"

"Who is Bragdon?" Tristan asked, picking up the hardly audible utterances. Not really expecting a reply, he was surprised when Guinevere turned to him.

"He husband, my cousin." She replied, before returning to gathering some water and ripping some cloths. She did not want to stop moving at the time. She did not want to leave space in her mind for contemplation about what was happening. She did not want to think on it, she just wanted to fix it all.

"Should we send for him? She said she rode ahead and that the rest were a few weeks away but I am sure we will find a way." Bors spoke. You could tell that his husbandly instincts were flaring up. God knows that if his Vanora had fallen deathly ill, she would want to be at her side, though he would deny it to anyone that asked.

Arthur was ready to give out the order, but Guinevere spoke and cut him off.

"Don't bother." She whispered solemnly. "Bragdon fell not two summers ago." She felt wretched for her cousin, whispering out the name of a man who would not come to her. Her heart ached for Alyanne. Guinevere knew that she would die if she was in the same position and Arthur would not come to her side. "Shhhh, quiet Alyanne. I am here." She cooed to her, stroking her curly hair. She knew it was not the same as having the reassuring voice of your husband to calm you down but it was all she could to attempt in soothing the distraught Alyanne. Guinevere turned to her husband with grave eyes. "I think we best send for my father." She said.

Immediately, Arthur turned to Tristan, his fastest rider and he nodded, understanding his mission. He quickly exited the room and headed for the stables.

"Is it that grave?" Arthur said, placing a hand on his wife's shoulder as she dabbed the water into the forehead of her beloved cousin. Still, she was calling out his name, Bragdon. Tears silently dropped from Guinevere's eyes.

* * *

**There we go, the start to another wonderful journey. Please be advised that this was priorly posted in my other account, but I have decided to keep everything here just for the sake of uniformity. For those of you reading my other unfinished stories, well, they are in the works and will not be updated till I finish them as I have finished this. This story is finished until God knows what chapter and I will be posting it piece by piece. To those of you who have just come into my writing, welcome. And to those of you who have been with me since day one, welcome back. Please review. I will love you forever if you do. **

**Rita's back! And the oreos are back too!  
**


	2. Two : Constancy

**Chapter Two: Constancy**

It had been a long since Tristan first rode off. Merlin lived in the outskirts of the Wall, near enough for a more than an hour's ride. Guinevere was getting even more worried as the night deepened and the sunrise approached. Her cousin's fever was increasing with intensity, throwing her into the depths of worrying. She was not one to be so agitated, but the fact that Alyanne was still calling out the name of her cousin, Bragdon, was not helping in the least.

Arthur was sitting by her, holding her free hand as a sign of his support. For the past few months, Guinevere had come to the conclusion that there was no man better for her than Arthur. He was her match in ever way. He made up for all her short coming as she did with him. When she needed a calm head, he was there as the voice of reason. When she needed the support that she clearly was in dire need of at that very moment, he was there to hold her hand and assure her that she was not alone.

Lancelot stood close by, leaning himself on the wall. Guinevere didn't know why, but her former attraction to this man melted like snow in the spring's coming, as did his passion for her. They no longer felt that trawl for each other. They had misunderstood all the signs that were throwing themselves at them. They finally understood that it was not love, nor was it lust that lay between them. It was almost like kinship All they had now was, not awkwardness as people in their situations normally find themselves in, but a bond stronger than friendship, but less than marriage.. There was a need to protect one another, and there was also a strange pattern of empathy for the feelings of the other.

Galahad and Gawain, bless their souls, were sleeping on the chairs by the window. The two friends were determined to know what had happened to the poor woman, but their bodies had had too much ale and too little rest to grant their requests. Sleep soon found them and easily as Vanora had found Bors and beckoned him to come to bed. The poor old man was as tired as a horse, though he was too pig headed to admit it. Thank the Gods he had a sensible woman to keep him on his toes.

With only three awake, and one on the threshold of death, the mood did not improve at the slightest.

"Guinevere?" Asked Lancelot from his spot on the wall.

"'Yes?" she weakly turned to him; she appreciated the fact that he was trying to distract her from her grief, and from the pangs of sleep.

"I know that there are women warriors among the Woads, but I had no idea that they rose to the ranks of commander as well." He said, slightly drawling, but those who knew him best could tell that he was interested in the topic that he had just raised.

"I must say Love that I have pondered on that as well." Arthur admitted.

Guinevere only smiled and dipped the cloth once more in the warm water. "When her father died, the Northern forces were left leaderless. They lost great numbers and were getting weaker by the moment. We could not afford to lose the Lake for it was what stood between the Saxons and the other Woad settlements. They were clamoring for someone to unite them once more. Alyanne was forced into the threshold of leadership by the Elders. She was reluctant, but then again, she didn't really have much say in the matter." She told the story. Merlin favored Alyanne for the position, and so did the other Elders. She did not want it, but Alyanne felt as if she owed it to her father's memory to continue on his legacy.

"No one contested?"

"Oh Arthur, who would contest the will of the Elders? Besides, Alyanne was known to have a talent for war. No, more than a talent. She had a gift. The gods had blessed her with the skill to win battles. No one could contest when she took charge. They knew that she was the one to lead them into safety and victory." She spoke the last part solemnly, looking at Alyanne's worry ridden face, filled with troubles and burdens. . "But it has been long since then when she last brandished a sword."

"Why?" This time it was Lancelot's curiosity that was tickled by the Queen's statement. He looked at the face of Alyanne and did not see a killer at all, only a woman consumed in darkness.

"Unfortunately, death has always been her constant companion. No one else has kept her company for as long as it has." Guinevere let out a faint, bitter laugh. "He was the only one who understood her. He could talk to her, share her burden. Bragdon was the only person that she would not cast away when he expressed his concerns for her. She always wore a mask of happiness and authority. He was the only person who saw the tears underneath. Bragdon was her match in every way… just like you and I." She told Arthur, giving a tender squeeze to his hand. "It was such a blow to her when he was killed. To this day, I still don't know how it happened. She would not tell anyone of anything that transpired. All I remember is that she didn't even shed a tear when we scattered his ashes. She just looked blankly at me and told me that I was to command the men from then on. From that day on, she never picked up her sword. Now you can understand my amazement when she called them 'her men' again." She told them. She was quite shocked at the revelation. She had not imagined that she would ever take up the sword again. It was wonderful, but all to surprising at the same time. "I don't even know why she hung it up in the first place." She gave a half hearted smile. She had always loved watching Alyanne move in a battle. It was mesmerizing. "I would have thought that it would fuel her more in her hate for the Saxons."

Their discussions were broken when Tristan burst through the doors, waking up Galahad and Gawain from their sweet slumber. All were instantly on their feet when Merlin entered the room; his face grimaced upon seeing his daughter in law on the bed.

Guinevere stood and embraced her father, welcoming him in their native tongue.

"She is with fever Father. It is high and keeps rising. I have tried drawing it from her head but it does not seem to work. She won't cool down." She said worriedly. Guinevere had done everything in her power to draw the fever from her head but nothing worked. She felt almost helpless at this point.

"Don't worry child." Merlin stroked her hair and calmed her down. "We will lift her from this dark cloud." He smiled, reassuring Guinevere that nothing would go wrong, they would not lose her. His face contorted when he got wind of what Alyanne had been saying. "She asks for him?" He said to his daughter, hoping that he had heard wrong.

"Aye she does, but he will never come to her father." A tear dropped from her eyes.

"Don't worry child. All will turn out well." He soothed her. He turned to the Knights and his brow furrowed. "All of you must leave now. Except for you Guinevere, you will stay and help me." He spoke to them.

"But…"

"No Galahad…my father is right. You must all leave." She nodded, leading them out of the room.

"Don't be worried Love. She will pull though." Arthur kissed his wife's forehead before leaving and closing the door of the rooms.

"Sometimes that old man just infuriates me! What right does he have in casting us away while we were watching only for the Lady's welfare!?" Galahad raged. He was, by far, a very temperamental young man and being thrown out of a room, for any reason did not take lightly to him.

"Slow down Pup." Gawain spoke to his brother. "There is no used sulking. Merlin is probably right. We were crowding the room. And you can not deny that we were asleep most of the time and were of no use." He gave a small chuckle.

"But we could help!"

"Would we help?"

"You twist my words!"

"But they are your words."

Galahad, being the stubborn mule that he was, took no heed to Gawain's words and went on speaking as if he had been insulted.

Tristan and Lancelot were in a sense the most calm of the bunch. Arthur was calm in the situation of Alyanne, but as far as Guinevere was concerned, he was all in knots as to her wellbeing. The two knights just sat down on near by chairs and the three went about their business. Galahad sulking, Gawain trying to make him stop and Arthur pacing. Quite a trio those three made.

"So, how was the ride?" Lancelot tried to spark a conversation with his tight lipped brother in arms. He was never one to be amused in silence.

"Good. The night air was refreshing." He replied, once again calling to his hawk that landed on his arm.

Lancelot spent much time with the recluse scout nowadays. They found themselves in each other's company more and more ever since the marriage of Arthur and Guinevere. It seemed like Tristan was the only logical being for Lancelot to talk to anymore, being that he ruled out Bors a long time ago. Though they spent much of their time in contemplation and silence, Lancelot prided himself in the fact that he could get more words out of Tristan than men normally could.

"Good then." He responded. It seemed like he would always find himself thinking on what next to say. Tristan's replies were absolutely challenging to and thus required a great amount of thinking before the next statement could be said. It was natural in the company of this scout. "What do you think is happening in there?" He asked again motioning to the doors of the quarters.

Tristan shrugged. Well, that was the end of the conversation. There was no use in staying awake now. He lowered himself on the chair and put his arms across his chest. Lancelot closed his eyes and sleep found him soon enough as he sat.

**-o-**

Lancelot felt himself being shaken to the pangs of consciousness. Why did he have to wake up now? He was still quite tired and was indeed content in the idleness and peace of slumber. It was not pleasant. He was not pleasant. Everyone knew not to wake Lancelot when he was in his sleep. It would mean death to bother him.

It was a woman scent. He was well acquainted with the scent of a woman. There was always something delicate and overly alluring to their boquet that could enthrall any man. Had he bedded another woman and forgotten yet again? But what about the previous night's events? The mysterious woman who had fainted in Arthur's court? Was she just a dream? Was it a dream that he carried her to the King's chambers and lay awake to watch Guinevere try to figure out a way to cure her? The light pierced through the darkness of his closed eyes. Slowly and gently, he opened them, getting adjusted to the light of the room. He was in the King's quarters, on a chair in the corner of the room. Lancelot was adjacent to a bed that had within it a woman that he knew he had seen before. She had raven hair and piercing gray eyes. She was the woman from last night. Alyanne.

"My Lady?" he asked, trying to figure out why she was in Arthur's room with the woman lying on the bed in front of him? What had happened that night? The questions in his mind seemed to give him a headache. He scratched his head in confusion and rubbed his eyes of their drossiness. "You gave us quite a scare last night."

"I assure you that I am well my Lord. I am certain that you exaggerate." She said, lifting the covers and rising herself to the sitting position, failing miserably.

Lancelot immediately stood up and helped her before she fell of, allowing her to grasp his hand and steadying her. "My Lady, perhaps it is best if you did not push yourself so quickly." He said, trying to get her to lie back down.

"You know nothing of my limits my Lord and thus you should not try and tell me when I have pushed them." Alyanne said, using his arm to steady herself and standing up on her own legs, neglecting to let go. She was trembling, and it was noticeable that she could not carry her weight just yet.

"If you ask me my Lady, by the looks of it, your limits have well been pushed." He said to her, getting a little annoyed by her persistence in the matter when she was clearly not able to stand by herself. She was still grasping his arm after all. "Please call me Lancelot."

"It is fortunate then sir that I did not ask you for such an opinion." She looked at him, purposely neglecting to use his name. Lancelot conceded that being restrained did not bode well with the Lady. He swore that frustration and irritation flooded her every being. But then, he saw her eyes. They bore nothing of exasperation or hostility that her choice of words seemed to hint. How could there be such eyes with nothing, absolutely nothing in them? It was as if she was hallow in some ways, but he quickly shook his head of the matter and turned away before she could notice him staring.

In her struggles, she quickly collapsed back on the bed. Lancelot smirked. He was always right, especially when it came to women. She was just being stubborn. "I told you." He said, as he put the covers back on her. Normally, he would rather be entering the covers along with such a woman, but it was neither the time nor the place for such deeds…or thoughts. He simply kept them to himself and continued trying to gently restrain the ailing woman back to the bed, for her own good as well as his.

Alyanne chose to ignore his comments and was surprised when the doors were opened to allow Arthur and his wife to come in.

"I see you are wake." She smiled and went to her side, opposite that of Lancelot. "As are you Lancelot." She turned to him.

"Pity, you did seem ever so peaceful as you slept." Arthur jeered at him.

"Am I to assume that the King of Britain enjoys watching me slumber?" he smirked Arthur's way. "Honestly, I have no idea what you are talking about." He once again scratched his head. He would have vengeance on Arthur later. As of now, he wanted answers.

Arthur chose not to dignify his earlier comment with a retort and simply replied to the latter. "Well, you fell asleep whilst talking to Tristan and were too heavy to be carried all the way back to your room, so we let you rest in here instead." Arthur answered, taking Guinevere's side and once more (as it had become a habit to him in his few months of marriage) put his hand on her shoulder, to which she raised a hand to caress his.

"Am I to believe that none of the great Sarmatian Knights were able to carry my lean, yet muscular frame down a few halls?" He raised a skeptical eye. He knew Arthur to be a horrible liar for the jest in his eyes gleamed like that of a young boy's.

"He misleads you my good sir." Guinevere laughed as she tended to her cousin. "The noble men of Sarmatia were all but too anxious to retire to bed and too lazy carry you to your room. That, as well as the fact that neither of them wanted to suffer your wrath by waking you up." This was the answer that Lancelot knew to be the truth and thus it satisfied his swimming head.

"The truth always comes out old friend. And what better vessel for such virtue as your wife." Lancelot laughed further, now being completely shaken from the grasps of sleep.

"If I didn't know better, I would say that you were flirting with me." Guinevere raised an eyebrow to the cad.

"Well, let's pretend you bask in ignorance shall we?" He winked in jest. He knew well that Arthur was used to his behavior and that he was as no threat to their marriage as Lancelot valued friendship even more. Arthur was his brother and Guinevere was now his sister. To appeal to her in that way would be no less than incestuous.

"I thank you for your hospitality cousin. I may perhaps have taken too much by invading your quarters." Alyanne spoke softly. Lancelot did not know if the tone of her voice was due to her weakness or just innate in her nature.

"It was no matter Alyanne. You are kin after all." Arthur smiled. The man was too giving for his own good, people would often think.

"At any rate, I am indebted to you, all of you." She spoke sincerely, and yet her eyes remained as empty as they always were. "Now that we know what befell of the good knight during the course of the evening's toll, may I inquire as to what ill fate I suffered so that my concerns may be laid to rest?"

"You fainted Alyanne and were consumed by high fever." Guinevere stated incredulously. "Do you not recall?"

"No, I fear that I do not. Perhaps I rode too hard the past days." She conceded, having shards of the happenings returning to her. "I only hope that my men will pace themselves as not to end up in the same condition." She half-heartedly tried to joke no matter how grave the situation was. But due to her current disposition, such efforts were in vain.

"I am sure that they will be fine." Guinevere smiled.

"Thirty strong you say?"

"Aye Lancelot. It used to be of greater numbers but we lost them as soon as I assimilated command." Guinevere said regretfully. "Forgive me cousin for letting you down."

"No forgiveness is needed. It was inevitable that we would lose some of them. It is war after all. The only thing worth asking for absolution here is that I was not there to protect you when the Romans attacked."

"Don't be ridiculous Alyanne. It was never your fault. What happened was meant to happen. After all, I believe it all turned out for the best." Guinevere smiled, giving Arthur's hand a light squeeze.

"I had heard that the new king had taken a wife, but I did not hear that the wife was you." She slightly smiled, making the effort though her frail state. "I am very pleased that you have found happiness." She spoke in the Woad tongue.

"Aye. I only wish that…" she spoke in the same language, unable to finish the sentence when she got the look from Alyanne that she did not want to hear what Guinevere was about to say.

"It can never be as it was." She replied. Alyanne closed her eyes for a moment and opened them slowly once again. "So when will I be able to get out of this bed? The dark haired one will not allow me to." She shot a glance at Lancelot, who she was certain did not understand a word she had just said.

"Oh be nice to him." Laughed Guinevere. "I am sorry you two, it has just been too a long time since I have spoken to anyone in my own tongue. It is refreshing." She smiled. "And you can not leave Alyanne, not until you are well enough to hold a sword." She smiled, ignoring her spirit-sister's comment on the dark Knight. "Merlin's orders."

Arthur laughed when Guinevere suddenly switched to the language he could understand. He could tell that she missed her people and greatly appreciated the fact that she had given them up for him. He was happy that her cousin had come for at least she would not yearn for the company of the Woads as intensely as before. "Perhaps you could teach me one day, so I can converse with you Love." He kissed her atop her head. "And yes my Lady, you will not be able to leave this bed until we can be certain that you are well enough, though not necessarily in grasping a weapon. Although if we hold it on those considerations, I am certain that you will be up and running in no time. From what Guinevere tells me, you are a force to be reckoned with if given a blade."

Lancelot noticed the way her eyes grew darker at the mention of a sword, especially in the thought of wielding a weapon. He had never seen this in anybody before. He had grown up with cold blooded killers who delighted at the thought of a war. Somehow, for a warrior, this woman did not seem to be amused at its utterance. He cleared his throat and attracted the attention of the couple.

"Perhaps it would be best if the Lady rested for now. After all, the feast is in the coming fortnight. The Saxons may be planning an invasion, but hell will freeze over before the Romans are deprived of their parties. No offense Arthur."

"None taken." Arthur smiled at Lancelot's obvious contempt for their Roman allies. Why would he even take offence in it? Arthur stopped being a Roman when he stepped on the earth of Badon Hill.

"It would be a pity for her to miss such festivities." He winked at the weakened woman. She in turn made no reaction, not of glee or offense. She just looked at him. It was unnerving. It was as if she was as cold as ice.

"Ah yes! How could we forget! Alyanne it will be just like when we were little, only we won't be dancing naked under the full moon!" Guinevere laughed.

"Are you certain that it cannot be arranged?' Lancelot raised his eyebrow and gave a mischievous grin. This earned him a laugh from Arthur and a slap on the arm from Guinevere. It was a happy moment, put to a halt by the sudden knock from the doors of the room.

"It looks like rest is far away." Guinevere smiled at her cousin. "Come in." The door opened and the ominous and foreboding form of Merlin entered, staff at hand and looking as grave as ever. He looked at his daughter with his purposeful eyes and silently conveyed all that was in his mind. Guinevere's laughing expression changed to that of urgency. "Perhaps we better take our leave now." She bowed her father's way and ushered the two Knights away. Arthur came instantly, but there was a bit of hesitation on Lancelot's part. He did not trust the old sorcerer till that day. He stared him down for a moment before condoning to exiting the room.

"Greetings my Child." Merlin turned to Alyanne, softening his glance upon the sight of her. Alyanne was among those favored in Merlin's eyes. It had been that way since she was born into the world. Merlin had been the one who looked after her when she became orphaned and he was also the one who educated her into all that she knew. If there was something close to a parent that she had, it was him.

"Merlin. I am ever under your debt for this kindness. I apologize if I burdened you in anyway." She bowed as a sign of reverence. She had a great respect for the man, as did her father and those of her family. She, herself was no kin to Merlin, but he cared for her as if she was one of his daughters. She only became related to him by her marriage to one of his nephews, a bond which had long been severed by death, yet still honored as they day it was forged.

"It was no burden I assure you." He smiled at her as he took a seat near her. Merlin was glad to see that the girl had awoken from her long sleep. It had been long since he had seen the child, and wished it had been under better circumstances that they had reunited and not the occurrences of last night.

"Still, my heart felt thanks." She pushed. It was genuine gratitude. From what she had seen in Guinevere's expression, she had fallen into a grave illness. It was certainly a feat to have pulled her through such a sickness.

"Do you know what ailed you child?" He asked with intent eyes, focused and poised in reading her expression. Merlin was always one for reading people, not by their words but by their initial reactions to the things he says. She had often seen him do this in her childhood and had been subjected to such scrutiny during those times as well.

"All I know is that I was under high fever. That was all that Guinevere told me." She hung her head low. She hated being such a burden to the people she loved. Guinevere had a husband now, a family of sorts. She did not need an invalid to take care of. She also didn't need extra worries on her head. No one deserved that right after their wedding.

"For that is all that she knows."

"Then there is more?" She was not surprised to hear it. No one would be so worried over a fever. It had to be something graver than that. Everything, every instinct within her was telling her that.

"There is always more to what one knows." Merlin said earnestly, though he did look as if he did not want to divulge anything further. But she would not have it. As much reverence as she had for this old man, he had no right within him to keep the true nature of her illness from her.

"Please enlighten me."

"Child, there is a darkness that hovers over you in your wake and it seems to consume you in your sleep." He spoke with much trepidation and caution. He had said the very same words two summers past. Alyanne reacted in the exact same way as well. Emotionlessly.

"Tell me no further for I know of which you speak."

"No. Though you are aware of it Alyanne, it is my fear that you fail to understand. What has transpired can never be changed. You must not dwell on the past for it is likely to devour you if you are to continue on this path." His death was hard on her, but it was hard for them all. Merlin could understand her grieving heart. Alyanne had lost so much in her young years, more than most people in a life time. But still she stood. But in the recent years, he found his conviction slowly feigning away as she fell deeper and deeper into the sorrow of which she had made for herself.

"I know that Merlin. You assume I do not think on those very words, but I do. In almost all of my waking hours, I do. It is just that…just that…you have no idea what plagues me." She spoke in defiance. How could anyone know how she felt? No one knew. No one knew, for they all did not go through all that she had experienced. No one else has lost everything they have ever loved and lived to tell the tale. How could they understand?

"Aye. In that you are right. I don't know what haunts you Alyanne, but I do know what it is doing to you."

"Leave me in my misery Merlin for it has served me a faithful companion up till now." She bade him leave. It was not like her to be so disrespectful to the man who cared for her in her darkest hours, to the man who acted as her father when the man who once held that title passed into the land of shadow. But that girl was gone. Alyanne was gone.

"Have you really given up hope?"

"I gave up hope a long time ago."

"And yet you fight. You resurrect yourself from the ashes and wield your sword once more." Merlin had unwavering faith in the girl. Even as a child, he could see all that Alyanne was capable of. She had a dormant strength within her, needing to be awakened by the proper stimulant. When her parents died, she unleashed that potential, exceeding the expectations of both naysayer and adherent. But unfortunately, death, the stimulant which propelled her to greatness, was also the thing that killed her little by little. "You may think that you are none but a lost cause my child, but there is still life within you. You are not beyond saving."

"I am not so certain." Her eyes growing softer and darker as she spoke. Why did Merlin have such faith in her? After all that she had done, turning her back on her men, leaving Guinevere to the hands of the Romans, so many horrible things. And yet, he remained unwavering in his faith.

"Stay the course. All will reveal itself in time."

* * *

**On to the next chapter!** **Even though the next one is already posted, please review this one as well.**


	3. Three : Everything to Lose

**Chapter Three: Everything to Lose**

Alyanne had been moved to her own quarters now, being well enough to stand on her own two feet, but still she was not allowed to leave the confines of her room being as Guinevere did not think her fit to be walking about. Personally, she would not have heeded her cousin's words, but she was indeed too weak no matter how much she denied the fact.

At that moment though, she was alone. Alone with the thoughts that plagued She sat in her room looking towards the window. It was by far a pleasant looking evening and she was in need of fresh air, only to be provided by her small window. She was thinking of the past. How things used to be. It was so much simpler then. There was nothing, no care in the world. Only her small tribe.

_The winter was a time of peace for the Woads of the North. There was no threat of the Saxons or Romans due to the fact that the weather was too cold for them to attack. It was when Alyanne was most at peace, because her father was home most of the time and her mother was not worried sick._

_It was nightfall and the entire tribe was gathered around a huge fire. Music was playing around. The beats of the drums was elating. Alyanne was known for being an excellent dancer. Her sense of rhythm was indeed a marvel and it was so alluring to stare at her as she danced. Her form seemed to emulate the swaying of the fire as the wind blew through the trees. Each beat of the drum resulted in an elegant movement from her body._

_Guinevere was there along with her father, the wizard Merlin. They were of not kin in anyway and this was the first time she had come into contact with the little girl. She seemed to be jubilant in every way possible and was a most agreeable companion. They had a connection between them and it seemed like it would last their life time. _

_While Merlin and her father, the chief Ieuan, talked of matters of a more grave nature, she and her new a kindred spirit to whom danced among the embers with and twirled to the strikes of the percussion._

It had been so long ago since she had experienced a joyful winter solstice with Guinevere. Things had gotten in the way and the cold weather no longer became a hindrance for the Saxon attacks.

_The trees all around her were burning and the sound of the Saxon war drums had replaced those of the celebrations. The children were being dragged from the scene as to keep them safe, but Alyanne would not be taken away. She kept screaming and screaming! Her her father was now in fierce combat with a Saxon mercenary. It was horrible. She could not bear it. She wanted nothing more than to pick up a sword and charge into battle to help her father. She struggled from the grasps of her keepers and finally broke through their grip. She took a blade from the floor and started to fight her way through the invading horde. The way she fought was indescribable. She had been taught by her father well. Alyanne slaughtered every Saxon that came her way, desperate to get to her father. _

_Suddenly a burly man of flaxen hair blocked her way. She cried out, screamed, as she clashed swords with him. He was twice her size but her determination was keeping her a float as she fiercely fought the man. She was angry, letting her emotions go with every blow. She had just seen her mother die. Tears fell from her eyes as she heard the metallic twang of the weapons all around her. She needed to defeat this adversary so she could reach her father and help him. She lost one to the Saxons; she would not lose another parent. She stuck harder and harder, pressing through, making the Saxon back up. But then, she heard it. The sound of pure and utter pain. The sound of death. With a split second glance, she saw her father with a sword through his chest, convulsing a little, before falling down to the ground, lifeless. It was then that she screamed with the might of all the emotions that she was feeling and plunged the sword through her opponent's body. She shoved it deep inside his abdomen that it came through in the other end. She thrust him with the sword as deep as she could and twisted it to make him scream as loudly as she did. He wanted to hear his pain so that she could forget her own._

Alyanne looked at the moon as it was revealed by the clouds. It was bright and full. Beautiful. Her reverie was broken when a light knock came to her door.

"Who is it?"

"It is I cousin."

"Come in."

Ever since Alyanne found that her cousin missed the Woad tongue, she made it a point to use it to speak to her whenever they talked. She could understand Guinevere's weariness. If their places had been reversed, she would crave for any memory of home as well. Unfortunately, the situations were unchangeable, she would never delight in her memories.

"Hello dearest. You look better than you did yesterday; you have more color to your cheeks now." The Queen smiled as she took the seat next to her kin. She placed a hand atop her cousin's and held it. It had been too long since she had seen her. She missed her terribly.

"So does that mean that may I leave this god forsaken room?" she asked with raised eyebrow, smiling the faintest of smiles.

"Not on your life."

Alyanne would have laughed if her current disposition had allowed her to do so. She stared once again at the heavens. They were beautiful, but their splendor only brought her further in thought. She sighed at their sight, saddening by what she saw.

"Care to share the burden of your thoughts?" Guinevere looked supportively on her. She knew Alyanne to be increasingly contemplative as the years passed by and it was only aggravated by solitude.

"The moon is blessed don't you think? It has all the stars to keep it company. It will never be lonely. It will always shine in the night sky with all the others. The sun has no one to share the vastness of the sky with, only clouds that roll by and leave." She said in a hushed tone that people were now finally accustomed to hearing. She spoke as if everything she uttered was a secret and could not be divulged to eavesdroppers.

"Oh Alyanne." She enfolded her cousin, who was to her as good as a sister. "You have been the sun for too long. When will you allow yourself to become the moon of which you so envy." She told her, trying to emulate empathy rather than pity.

"I am not strong Guinevere, nor do I try to be." Alyanne whispered with a tone of finality.

Guinevere looked at her cousin. She did feel for her in a way that others didn't Alyanne was supposed to be happy by now. If only Bragdon was not killed…but no. It was not healthy to dwell in what ifs. Tarrying on them would make one mad. She conceded not to say what was in her mind. Bragdon was now in peace, but she couldn't help but think that he would have fought to live, harder than he did, if he had known that this would be the result.

"Oh dear Alyanne." She kissed her forehead. "Strength can be found in more ways that one. Believe me when I say that it is within you"

"No it is not. I have always leaned on you for the strength. It may have been I who once led the men to victory, but it was always you whom I depended on. I am not strong."

"Keep saying that to yourself and it may just come true Alyanne."

"When will you see that it already is?" Alyanne looked at her cousin with a melancholy look in her eyes. She was not as strong as all believed her to be. In the end, she was just like everyone else…afraid. She was so afraid of what may happen. Being a leader did not mean that you were fearless, in fact it meant the opposite. In Alyanne's case, being a leader meant that you have the deaths of all your men on your head. Each and every one of the fallen had a name, a family, a life, and it was taken away with the blink of an eye and the thrust of a sword. With every man that they sent floating on the Lake, she could feel the force of guilt for his death.

"It is not." Guinevere spoke with insubordination in her tone. Her cousin was too tortured to be weak. She had survived more than anyone ever knew and still she stood. If that wasn't strength then what was? "You are as stubborn as ever. How did I put up with you all those years?" She laughed. They grew up as sisters, the two of them. Ever since Ieuan died and Alyanne took the leadership of the Northern Woads, Guinevere begged her father to stay. She was her kindred spirit and the sister she had never had.

"I have no idea." She turned to her, smiling despite her self in the remembrance of their childhood together.

"But you were the one with reason among the both of us. I was too impulsive for my own good. Look where it got me, in a dark tunnel and tortured." Guinevere laughed. She did not notice the sudden change in Alyanne's expression.

"It should have been me." Guilt over ran her. It killed her to think of her in that dark torture chamber, experiencing God knows what. It had been her decisions that had cast Guinevere to that hollow and she never neglected to remind herself of that. She lived with it everyday.

"Do not say such things." Guinevere hushed her, tightening her grasp on Alyanne's hand. "It was not your fault."

"No Guinevere. It should have been me. They wanted the leader of the Woad rabble and had I not given up my sword, you would not have had to suffer so much." Her hollow eyes now had a twinge of guilt ridden in them. Her eyes betrayed her, for it showed only a small fraction of what was tearing up her heart. It was her that was to blame and no one else. No one.

"As I have said, it all ended up for the best. Had I not been in that dungeon, I would have never met Arthur and would not be his wife." She comforted the woman with utter and complete bliss in her eyes. She was happy now. She had a husband and one day she would hope to give him a child. She could see her entire life before her eyes and it all fell into place. Guinevere was content and she had no regrets.

"You forgive so easily."

"You should too."

"Aye, but my wounds are far too deep Guinevere. Yours healed through herbs and medicine. The only thing that will heal my wounds is my own death." She turned once again to the night sky, watching the moon twinkle with all of her stars.

"No. Time is what will heal them. Give it time." She looked at her cousin in her reflection. "Will you ever tell me why?" She never knew what happened. She never did tell her. For all her good graces, Alyanne's greatest was that she could keep a secret to her grave.

"As you said cousin, in time." She sighed. "I will tell you when I am strong enough to face it."

On that last note, Guinevere smiled at her cousin. She stood up and left the door, leaving Alyanne with her thoughts once again. Against her better judgment, it came out of her before she left the door, "Bragdon never doubted your strength." Guinevere left and closed the door, terrified of the fact that she had just mentioned her cousin's name to Alyanne.

**-o-**

Lancelot walked into the tavern to find Bors drunk and asleep, Galahad challenging Tristan in a game of daggers (under the impression that he had improved), and Gawain drinking the night away with a barmaid on his lap. Everything seemed alright in the world. The only thing new was that Arthur was with them at that very night. It was rare to find this man in the tavern now a days and Lancelot took this as a sign of the Gods to make him pay for his earlier comments.

It was enjoyable being in the tavern in the evening. It was a ritual that the Knights had done since their arrival to the wall. The ale, the merriment, Gawain's rosy cheeks and Bor's snoring. They were all part of the night's events in Arthur's forces. It was a time to bond and talk. This was your chance to get everything you wanted out of your fellow Knight, taking advantage of his drunken state.

"So Arthur, Guinevere let you out of the leash tonight? Or mayhap you had to sneak out from her hawk-like gaze?" Lancelot smirked as he sat down next to his dear friend and signaled Vanora for a tankard of ale.

"It was hard to squeeze myself out of the window." He laughed as he clasped arms with Lancelot in greeting. Was he truly such a leashed husband that his own men wuld think he had no freedom with his wife? At any rate, he didn't mind. He was happy. Utterly content. Anyone who would say otherwise would have to be mad.

"It looks like someone is being kicked out of the bed of wedded bliss aye?" Gawain laughed as the maiden stood from his lap and he took a huge swig of his ale. He was indeed the worst drunk of all the Knights. He giggles like a woman, he would sing like an out of tune lute and he would fall face first before the night was over. All in all, he provided the evening's amusement.

"Ah there, laugh all you want, but remember that I have a loving wife to come home to every night and all you have are your horses to keep you warm."

"Oh, I wouldn't call Lancelot's companions as horses. But if they were such, then please introduce me." Gawain laughed, obviously drunk beyond his wits.

"Sincerely, why have we the honor of having the King of Briton's company this evening?" Lancelot said with an air of sincerity and a small dose of jest.

"Guinevere is speaking to Alyanne so I thought I might have a drink with Sarmatia's finest men." He toasted to them and drank from his mug. It had been long since he had spent time with his men without Guinevere at his side. Being a happily married man did have it draw backs when it came to spending time with other people other than his wife, and other than from within a locked bedroom.

"And how is the maiden faring?" Asked Galahad, aiming for the target in front of him. He still had his little delusions of grandeur in beating Tristan in the game. When would this young pup learn?

"She is as well as can be expected for one who has just crossed the border between life and death. Silent as always."

"She is indeed silent that one." Murmured Tristan as he watched Galahad fire his dagger, hitting the bull's eye.

"Look who's talking. The ever stoic Tristan is calling the Lady silent." Giggled Gawain, his face was as red as a tomato right now.

"Alright Gawain, I believe you have had enough." Galahad snatched his drink and turned to Tristan who had just launched his dagger right in the middle of his dagger's hilt. "I will never cease to be amazed." He shook his head.

"I told you, aim for the middle." Tristan let out a faint smirk and returned to his seat and his ail. Though Tristan may not have shown it much, he did have a sense of humor and it was utterly rare for them to get that reaction out of him. To have it otherwise would be urgent cause for concern.

"You can sense the sadness in her, though her eyes guard her secret well." Contemplated Lancelot as he swirled his drink in the tankard. "You can't blame her for one who has suffered so much."

"We have all suffered. Why should she be so different?" Asked Gawain tactlessly amidst his intoxicated state. He was imitating Vanora by placing his hands on his waist and wagging his fingers inches from Lancelot's face. It was a pretty sight.

"Be careful. With your long, golden and feathery locks, one might mistake you for a true woman. Ugly, but a woman nonetheless." Galahad laughed as he mocked his best friend. All in the name of good natured fun. And besides, it was not as if he would remember any of it in the morning.

"I will have you know I am very pretty." Gawain flipped his hair, but ended up flipping himself to the ground as well.

"She had more to lose than we." Tristan replied from the corner on which he sat. In battle, none of the Knights had anything to live for other than the hope of seeing home once more. All they had were dreams. What Alyanne had was real. She had a family. She had more to come back to than anyone else in that tavern, save Arthur and Bors. And she lost them all. Tristan could understand her pain, for he too had experienced it once a long time ago.

The gravity of the conversation was suddenly broken when Bors fell from his chair and was pushed into the land of the waking. They all laughed at the sight, of course.

**-o-**

Alyanne could no longer stand being all cooped up in her room. It was lavish and grand to say the least, but she was a Woad and Woads did not take lightly to being caged up no matter how gilded it was. She felt stifled in her room. She was used to roaming free and for an illness to take that freedom away from her was madness. Deep in the night, while all lay in sweet slumber, save she, Alyanne slipped from the furs that covered her body and stood up. She opened her door, creating as little sound as possible. She stepped as light as a feather. She did not want to make a sound in fear of being led straight back to the dungeon that was her quarters.

She climbed the stairs. Winding and long were they as it took all her strength to reach the top. She wanted to see the sky from more than her window. The view was beautiful from her room but nothing compared to the open sky. She panted a bit. Apparently the fever had weakened her significantly. She didn't mind it though. Though she panted, it took a lot to tire out Alyanne. She climbed, seeing the door at the end. She opened the latch and marveled at the sky's view from atop the battlements.

She had forgotten what it was like to be up so high. It had been a long time since had climbed the trees in the wood. As a child, she used to practically live on those branches, but as of late, she found little use for such frivolities as that. There was always a battle to plan or, in light of her recent actions, things to be thought upon. She had forgotten life's simple joys, once again taking things for granted.

The moon was right above her and the stars circled it like a halo. She twirled a bit. It felt like an eternity since she had last seen the majesty of the night. She lay down on the floor of the battlements and kept her head to the sky. She closed her eyes and felt the wind course through her body. The gentle breeze was tickling her skin. She wished like she could stay like this forever. But experience taught her that contentment never lasted as long as one wanted.

"You can come out now." She said, her eyes still closed. She felt the presence of someone, though she had no idea as to who it was. Alyanne heard footsteps approach her and she opened her eyes to see the rugged scout looking right at her. "Hello." She said quietly, closing her eyes once more, staying as still as possible.

"How did you know that I was there?" he asked, as she heard his movements as he sat beside her on the floor. If she had not been so close to him, she would never have heard his actions. His movements were as silent as he. His steps could hardly be heard.

"The wind told me." Was her ambiguous answer. She had always trusted the wind to tell her the secrets of the world. It carried news from far away. It was free.

When she was little and her mother still lived, she was taught that the wind was a Woad's most constant companion for it would never leave you. You should learn to trust the wind and learn to listen to it when it tells you the secrets you surrounding have. Before any battle, she would just lie still on the ground and listen to the wind for guidance. The wind never let her down and it always told her when danger would be afoot.

"You would make a fine scout Lady." He mentioned. She opened her eyes and turned to him. He looked unreadable to her. His eyes were hidden amidst his locks and braids and did not even seem to smile. He was passive, stoic. His eyes never betrayed him.

"My husband taught me well." She said quietly. It was Bragdon who was her scout. He was just like this man, quiet and incomprehensible. One had to have patience when dealing with him. It took years for them to warm up to each other. Somehow, Alyanne regretted that, for if she had only known of his affections earlier, they would have had so much time together. She felt like it was all wasted, the years that flew them by.

"You mourn for him still." He consoled her. "It can not be helped."

"You mourn for someone too, am I not mistaken?" She had never met a person who understood her pain. It was always people who told her that it was long ago and that her husband would have wanted her to be happy and not sulk in the darkness all the time. No. Tristan understood, just like a man who had experienced it for himself.

"Did my eyes betray me Lady?" he asked her, turning to Alyanne. She looked into his eyes. They were a void, as was her own. Though they were the stunning shade of blue, his eyes carried no emotion whatsoever. They were blank and their emptiness could mean nothing but pain.

"No. It was your words that told me your secrets." She remarked at his question. "Most people tell me to move on."

"It is not easy to forget. They haunt you." He turned to the sky and extended his arm to which his hawk rested. He spoke with a soft and soothing voice. One would think that such a man would have a voice terrifying enough to scare any enemy, but his voice brought calm to her. It was such a shame that he spoke so little.

"Who was she?" Alyanne asked, as if reading his thoughts. A man like that would have loved and lost. Loss was something that marked a man, as it had done to them both. It changes you.

"My daughter." The answer was unexpected. She had not taken him for the type to be a father. He seemed too war torn and blood thirsty to care raise a child. Judgment was her curse. But then again, she realized long ago that she was a poor judge or men when opinions were made at first glace. Talking with him now, she could see how wrong about him she might have been.

"I will not press it any further." She looked back towards the sky.

"No, it is alright. We are the same you and I. We have lost. Isolde was taken from me during childbirth. The healers had deemed her too weak to bear a child and advised her against it. But she was stubborn my Isolde. She wanted to give me a child. She wanted us to have a family. She had taken into a fever much like you. Eiddwen was all I had left of her." He said, a spark forming in his eyes at the mention of his daughter's name. It was apparent that he held his daughter in the deepest of affections for she took him as the man who rarely showed any reaction.

"Eiddwen. Beloved one."

"Aye. She had her mother's hair, fiery mane. A head full of red hair. Her eyes were the most brilliant color of green that you've ever laid your eyes upon. They shone like gems under the proper light. I would sometimes even think that she was the exact copy of her." The stress seemed to lift from his face as he reminisced. Fond memories they must have been. She knew that when she thought of Bragdon, her problems would vanish. A euphoria would envelope her. But memories were much like ghosts. As Tristan had said, they haunted you.

"How did she die, if I may ask?" She did not want to press him into saying anything. Privacy was something she herself valued more than anything.

"She was out in the fields, playing one day. Romans caught sight of her. They asked her where her village was, and she would not answer. She was a shy one my girl. It was the only thing she got from me." The little happiness in his face seemed to melt with every word. That was the hardest part in remembering, when it comes to the part that you remember how you lost them. Anguish would constantly follow. "They took it as insolence and killed her on the spot. They brought back her body to the village and took me to serve as a Knight. I could not even give her a proper burial."

"There is no justice in that." She conceded. There was no honor in killing a child. She was shy and there was no fault in that. To kill such an innocent child had to be heartlessness at its finest. No man should ever suffer that, to have his life murdered and his freedom taken away. No father should ever live to bury their child.

"Aye. But there is no justice in the world either. Did you think there was justice when your husband was taken from you?" He returned her question, once again turning to her.

"In that, I agree with you." Her eyes darkened. There was indeed no justice in the way Bragdon died. She shook her head, forcing herself to repress the on coming memory. She did not need to be reminded of it. No. She was finished staining her pillow with salty tears of sorrow.

"Guinevere tells us that you never told her how it happened. How he died."

"Retelling the story would be accepting the truth."

"Then you are fortunate, for you have just witnessed a man accept his daughter's death." He did not seem happy about it, but no one would after they had been so much. It seemed that Tristan was just Tristan, neither happy nor in despair. He just was.

"You are fortunate good sir. I fear that I am far from accepting it." Though it had been two summers ago, she refused to recount the tale. She did not want to remember the throbbing in her heart when she saw what was left of him.

"You will one day. Just remember that no one is hastening you." He was a comfort to her. To have someone speak to her in such a way was greatly appreciated. She did appreciate what Guinevere was trying to do, but she did not understand what it felt like to have life ripped from you as you slept in peace. She did not know how it felt to burn a husband's body and scatter the ashes. Tristan was someone who spoke from the knowledge he had gained form experiencing it himself. She could not imagine what she would do if a child of hers was killed and then have to be forced to serve her murderers. It took a strong man to do that and keep his sanity.

"You are wise Tristan." She told him, sitting up and looking into the man's empty eyes.

"I thank you my Lady." He nodded to her, watching the dead stars twinkle on the earth. "You are much like her. You have strength beneath your silence." He told her without looking her way. "Eiddwen used to listen to the wind as well."

Alyanne did not speak; only felt a large surge of pride and gratitude in being able to remind a man of the thing he loved most. They just sat there for a while, not saying anything, not doing anything, just sitting still and basking in the comfort of finding somebody who understood.


	4. Four : Secrets

**Chapter Four: Secrets**

The Knights had gathered in the stables that dawn. There was much need to hone their talents, especially with the threat of the Saxons coming at their doorsteps. Galahad had been sparring with Lancelot for the better part of eternity and still managed to lose every set. His sword was no match for his twin blades. The clang of metal was unmistakable, all prerequisite to the coming of a battle.

"What is the matter little boy, can't handle it?" Lancelot jeered as Galahad lunged at him and he evaded. The boy was slower even though he had the lighter armor. Lancelot had the advantage of experience on his side and he was taking it for all it had. He swung his twin blades, bombarding Galahad with hits so he would keep on blocking. "And here I thought you were a knight."

"You are too cocky for your own good." Galahad retorted as he fought back, trying to press him to take steps back, aiming for his right leg and his neck, both of which were easily blocked. Today was not a good day. He knew he would lose this set as well.

"That is because I am good and you know it." Lancelot finished Galahad off by pressing him to fall back on his bum and setting the two swords on both sides of his neck. Victory once more. "You are too slow Galahad."

Lancelot was a formidable opponent as most of his fellow Knights would attest to. The way he moved in battle reflected how he acted on a daily basis. He was sure of himself and certain that he would succeed. Every move he made was certain, no room or want for hesitation. Although the twinge of fear in any man's heart when he comes face to face with a fellow killer never really faded, no matter how skilled he got. He simply never gave in to it.

"Well it was hardly a fair fight when you have two swords and I only have one." He said, sulking. What hurts the ego more than losing was losing to Lancelot. That is because the pig-headed bastard was good and he knew it all too well. It was a crime to lose to him because it only fed his already inflated ego.

Galahad had something that a man should never bring into battle with him, a temper. It never resulted well when a man fights with anger and hatred. The two tend to blind you completely and make you believe that you either too occupied to guard your own back, or too sorrowful to even have the will to live. For Galahad, it was the earlier and it was always his fault even in sparring. It was so easy to taunt him.

"You never know, one of the Saxons may have three, then what would happen to your pretty little head." He smirked and sheathed his weapons. He offered an arm to his brother who begrudgingly accepted. Lancelot clasps his little brother's shoulder and gave him a good natured pat. "Face it Galahad, you will never beat me."

"Pick up your sword again." A voice sounded from the edge of the stables. It was not anyone of the Knights, for the voice was female and soft. It was Alyanne.

"My Lady." Galahad acknowledged her presence as she entered the room. "I believe I have proven it all to well that I can not defeat Lancelot, not today at least." He laughed a little, bitterly of course.

"You can." She insisted. Alyanne had watched them fight without them noticing at all. She could see that Galahad had a chance, he just didn't know how to make best of the situation presented to him. "Just pick up your sword and listen to all that I say."

Galahad picked up his weapon from the floor. It would be fun to humor the lady. No harm would come of it, so why not? He stood in battle stance and waited for Lancelot to do the same.

"Haven't had enough humiliation?" Lancelot smirked and pulled out his swords. "I would have thought that you had already reached your quota for the day."

Signs of Galahad's quick temper was quickly rising to his face. "Don't listen to him." Alyanne ordered him. "Listen to my voice and my voice alone."

While Galahad was still trying to block all sounds out, Lancelot took it as an opening to attack. He swung his blades towards him. An assault which Galahad barely blocked.

"Use his weaknesses. Aim for his left rather than his right, he does not protect it as well for his shoulder seems bad on the right." She told him.

Galahad followed.

"It is not bad." Lancelot whined, flexing his right shoulder. In truth, he had received an injury there when a bloody Saxon stabbed him. How could she have noticed that when it was hardly noticeable? He tried to prove it by using his right arm to attack. There was a twinge, but he could bear it. Unfortunately, Galahad now noticed him slightly winced. The smirk on his opponent's face grew wider. He would take Alyanne's advice. He was perennially being bombarded with consecutive attacks, his left being the constant target. He was slowly getting tired. She was absoulutely right.

"It is." She turned to him and walked towards the sparring area, unnoticeably stumbling as she walked. She tried to remember how they both moved. "Also, evade his attacks rather than colliding with it. It takes twice as much energy to miss rather than to be able to just hit." She continued on. "There is no shame in ducking once in a while."

She had said it just in time as well. Just as Lancelot hurled the sword on his opponent, Galahad obediently ducked, making Lancelot feel the full weight of the blade as it came down to strike the ground. He tried it again and again, but Galahad evaded it every time. He was tired out from the attacks on his left that his speed had reduced considerably.

"Oh Lancelot, the little lady has got you all figured out." Laughed a highly amused Bors. He was into hysterics right now for the great and mighty Lancelot, self-proclaimed God's gift to women was now being scrutinized and humiliated by such. She could see every weakness he had and was sharing it with the world. It strangely got annoying to some extent. But he was more dazed than annoyed. Galahad was actually defeating him.

"Finish him off. Use his larger, heavier frame against him. His weight plus that of his sword is sure to bring him down quicker than if you struck him."

Galahad evaded one last time, situating himself behind Lancelot and pushing him to the ground just as his sword reached the ground. He put his sword to Lancelot's neck and laughed. "I won! Oh dear God!"

"I thought you were pagan?" Gawain jeered.

"Surely this is enough to convert a man."

"Don't get so used to it." Lancelot glared at Galahad's boasting.

"Oh I think I will get used to it. I know your weaknesses now!"

"Lancelot he has rhythm. He dances, when there is no music. He made you dance to his beat. It is just a stroke of luck for you that he had an unhealed injury" She finished, looking Lancelot straight in the eye as she said so. She could sense that he didn't dance much nowadays, but used to. She was ambiguous in her words, but there seemed to be wisdom in them. War was like a dance, a dance that leaves you perpetually moving and gliding across an open field. The steps are all up to you, but the music is something that depends on the situation entirely.

"At any rate, I am grateful my Lady. One victory is enough to hang over his head for an entire lifetime. Perhaps you would now like the honors of defeating him for yourself?" Galahad offered eagerly, tilting the hilt of his sword to her direction.

"Aye Alyanne. It would make us all so happy to see the all powerful man knocked off his horse of supremacy." Gawain supported his best friend in the proposal. It was obvious that Bors wanted it so, but could not say a sound for he was still too occupied with his laughter. Tristan, which his watchful eyes, just observed to see what would happen next.

"For once I would agree with this rabble my Lady, for it would be refreshing to clash swords with someone of talent for once. As you said, Galahad was just lucky. I doubt that that would apply in your case." Lancelot shot a good natured glare at Gawain and Bors. He did mean every word. He was also curious as to what this girl could do.

Alyanne looked at the sword. It was a beautiful blade. From the way Galahad was holding it the hilt seemed perfectly balanced with the rest of the blade. It did not seem heavy to her, perhaps a new way of heating the metal. It still shone in the little sunlight with a brilliant luster. Gorgeous. But she shook her head. No.

"I am afraid I only came in to check on my horse, my Lords." She bowed her head. "Good day." She would not touch that sword until it was utterly needed. She looked away from the Knights and stepped away from the center.

All eyes were kept on her for a while. They carefully watched her as she came up to her horse and stroked its mane. It also seemed as she was talking to it. The eyes did not go unnoticed, but there were two sets that seemed to bore a hole into her body.

"That lass is troubled beyond all of what our knowledge can grasp." Bors sighed as he looked away. By this time, all had left her to her privacy, save Tristan and Lancelot.

"Since when did Guinevere allow her to leave her room?" Galahad piped up, remembering their Queen's ardent command that she was to stay in her room as she was not fit to be walking around yet.

"She is entitled to some air." Tristan made a nonchalant comment. Though he was discretely watching her behind his haphazard locks.

"She is entitled to freedom." Lancelot agreed. From what he could tell, the woman was not used to being held in doors. She was free. She was not like Guinevere who so easily adjusted to life outside the woods. It would take time for Alyanne to be used to fort life, if she were to stay that long.

"Fine then. Enough chattering. One would think you women the way you gossip in midday. Well come on lad!" Bors called out to him. "I'll make you dance the jig and have you flat on your arse before you can twitch." Bors was always eager to get the chance to cut someone's head off, even if only in practice.

"No. I think I'll sit this one out. It is unfair that you all know my secrets, and I have yet to discover yours." He said to the general public, although he was saying it to one person in particular. She didn't seem to hear.

"If you ask me, he is just afraid of the possibility of getting his arse on the ground." Gawain laughed as he stepped down the seat-like steps and grabbed his axe. "I, however, will be honored to be the one to castrate Bors this lovely morning. I would imagine that Vanora would give me a free tankard of ale after that." He quipped as he attacked Bors with his axe and initiated the new set.

Meanwhile, Lancelot still watched the maiden as she tended to her horse. How could one have so much pain and yet not share it with the world. She could watch and see everyone's limitations. But she was a complete ambiguity. She was like a perfect little puzzle. And Lancelot always did adore solving puzzles.

**-o-**

Guinevere was bustling about in the castle. The role of Queen was more of a domestic post rather than a political one. She had to see to it that everything ran smoothly. She did not like it, but it was certainly better than dieing of boredom and idleness. At the moment, she was tending to the details of the harvest. With winter coming in, it was a busy task. All the supplies and crops had to be stored before they were destroyed by the pending blizzards. She said and looked at the tallies. It looked bountiful so far. She only hoped that it would continue as so. Guinevere gave a heavy sigh. She thought she had left this life of idle chores when she joined Alyanne. Unfortunately for her, the crown of Queen came with tally sticks and vegetables.

"So cousin, a great warrior is now reduced to nothing but a tally maid for the Wall's harvest?"

Guinevere abruptly dropped the sticks and was overcome with shock, excitement and elation. The voice she had heard was too bold to be that of Alyanne's. Alyanne once had that same tone, but lost it a long time ago. She only knew one other woman with such a voice. One that commanded the attention and demanded the obedience of all who heard it, yet still have a melodic quality that made it as a Siren's lullaby. She smirked and kept on counting.

"My days as a warrior ended when I subjected myself to such bliss. What other occupation could enthrall my as much as making notches on my tally sticks."

"Uhm, I don't know, breaking a man's neck with your bare hand. As I seem to recall, you enjoyed those quite well in the past."

"All that I want to break now is celery sticks for the stew this evening." Guinevere continued to joke.

"Oh will you quit pretending Guinevere? This is all folly! Doesn't the Queen of all Britain know how to greet a Priestess of the Old Ways?" She laughed. At that, Guinevere turned around and welcomed her cousin in with open arms. She couldn't be happier. She had long for home so much in the past months, but now it seemed as if her prayers were being answered and that home was coming to her.

"I have missed you Elaine."

"And I you." Elaine smiled at the warm and loving welcome she received. It was such a long time ago since she had seen Guinevere. They grew up together, shared the same memories, even shared the same scars. She had never known a sister by blood, so this cousin of hers filled the gaping hole in her heart that longed for one.

She broke the embrace, stepped back and looked at her cousin. She had changed so much since they last saw each other. She was no longer that gangly girl who always managed to make her laugh whenever she had to do training with Merlin. No. Guinevere was a lady now. She was a woman, a wife, a Queen. So much had changed within her, and yet she was still her Guinevere.

"Your father sent for me." She spoke as they sat down.

"Why would he send for you at this time?"

"The Rites."

"You are to perform them?" Guinevere said in shock. She knew that Elaine was capable of it, but performing the Rites of Ilyaren was an honor bestowed not just to anyone at all. Ilyaren was one of the most important rituals that the Woads had, and Elaine was to be it's priestess. All she could do was smile, but even that was not a reflection of all she was feeling for her dear cousin. "I could not be prouder. My cousin, a Priestess of the Old Ways."

Elaine had changed. Now in her Priestesses' robes, she served the Old Ways. She could not be a mischievous little minx anymore. People relied on her to be a guiding hand. She was expected to lead them in their worship of the Earth and all the spirits. She was expected to be the one to take Merlin's place once the Earth had taken him into Her arms. It was true, they were children no more.

"I did not think it possible as well." Elaine said with a small smile. She did not seem it, but she was the happiest she had ever been in years. She had finally become what her life had prepared her to be. She wanted nothing more than to end her days serving the Old Ways. To attain her life's pursuit was bliss indeed.

"When will the Rites be?" Guinevere asked, standing up, remembering that she had left her work lying all over the room. She went to the table and picked up her tally sticks, one by one, while still keeping the conversation with Elaine.

"Two days from now, when the moon has disappeared from the sky."

"Two days from now?" Guinevere abruptly stopped. It could not be that soon. "But our Roman allies are expected to come then for a feast. It seems that they would die if deprived of their festivities." They had been planning this for more than a month now. Though she did not like it one bit, Guinevere knew it was better to catch flies with milk than honey. If she had her way, the flies would have been swatted a long time ago. But unfortunately, with the Saxons at March, they could not be rid of that easily.

"Well, they live on our land. They must abide by our ways. Our ways are the Old Ways and they will not change that as long as there is breath in my body." She spoke with conviction. Why should they submit to what the Romans wanted? They had trespassed on this land too long. Elaine knew that with their presence, the Old Ways had been slowly disappearing from the face of the earth. She would not left that happen. She was a Priestess and it was her duty to see to the survival of the Earth's religion.

"We can not just cast them off Elaine." Guinevere tried to be diplomatic in her answer. As much as she hated the pigs, she knew that they had their uses. The men they provided for the army proved too numerous to be ignored. The funds they gave was too great to be cast aside. In an idyllic society, one would have no need for such men, but sadly, theirs was not a utopia no matter how hard they strive for it to be. "Though I may loathe their squabbling, Arthur has need of their men to ensure victory over the impending Saxon invasion."

"Then what do you suggest we do? Forsake that which our people have done since before our birth?" Elaine spoke with a little more forcefulness in her voice. Since when did Guinevere bend down to the will of the trespassers? She would not suffer this!

"I shall have to talk with Arthur first." The Queen conceded to her cousin's words. Elaine had always been insistent. She was never one to back down from a fight. Guinevere sensed that if she argued on like this, it would get them nowhere. She stood up, left her things at the table. She turned to Elaine and smiled. "Can we continue this later?"

"Of course cousin." She responded with a smile of her own. They would catch up soon.

"Oh and Elaine?"

"Yes?"

"You make a fine Priestess." With that, Guinevere left the room, off to find her husband.

**-o-**

All was silent when Guinevere walked through the doors of the Main hall. The Arthur sat east of the Round table, looking out the window. His brow was furrowed in worry and his face heavy with doubt. He was thinking much on the things to come. Winter's first frost was drawing nearer by the moment. It would not be long before he saw the numbers of the Saxon horde emerging from behind the hills. He feared for the worst. Guinevere knew it without even asking. She could see it all in his eyes.

"All will turn out for the best." She placed a hand on her husband's. She hated seeing him like this, like he was doubting himself. She had believed him to be an invincible man once, but now, she understood that he was a man like all others. The only difference was that he carried more on his shoulders that an ordinary man should.

"You always say that." He turned to her, and tried to smile despite his worry. He did not like seeing her distressed over his troubles. He wanted to see her smiling, for it was the only comfort that came to him at times like this.

"I have faith in those whom I love, and I know all will turn out for the best." She smiled warmly at him.

Arthur stood up and walked towards the window. He looked out into the horizon as if looking for any sign of the impending danger. The wind blew. Its harsh frost coursing through his skin, making it crawl. His eyes darkened as the gust continued on, pushing him. "Winter is nearing."

"Yes. The harvest has been plentiful so far and if I am not mistaken, it will keep us through the winter ahead." Babbling on, she did not realize what it meant. She did not realize that his kind face had grown stoic at what he said. His grip on the windowsill tensed. She had not seen the torment in his eyes.

"That is not what is on my mind."

"I have already told you…"

"No, it is not the Saxons…"

"Then what?" Guinevere asked, walking towards him. She stood beside him as the relentless winds blew. It was times like these when she would remember how little she knew of the man she called husband. Though he was a warm person, he hardly talked of himself enough for her to say that she knew him well.

"Nothing. It is nothing." He evaded her gaze; once again, trying to hide what was in his mind. He did not want Guinevere to be burdened with his problems. She did not need it in her life.

"Arthur, you can trust me. I am your wife."

"It is not that. It is just…" His eyes seemed empty as he spoke, looking to the horizon, searching for some unknown solace.

"I can tell that you are not ready to tell me. I understand. I will not hurry you into anything." She could wait if he wanted her to. After all, they did have the rest of their lives for that. Time was theirs. At least, that is what she kept telling herself.

"Thank you." He could tell by her voice that she was hurt with his decision. But there were just some things that could not be spoken of, not now at least. "What have I done in my life to deserve such a woman?" he whispered into the nothingness that lay before him.

"You were yourself. That is all anyone could ask for." She unexpectedly answered.

"Look at us, dwelling on Saxons and secrets when in two days, a great feast will be held."

"Actually, that is why I came here in the first place." She said, remembering her purpose.

"So the pleasure of my company was not enough to lure you to my side?"

"Arthur, your company is not at all as pleasurable as you deem it to be." She laughed. Arthur was a serious man, but even serious men had a sense of humor. "It is about my cousin."

"Alyanne seems to be better now. I saw her earlier and she seemed to have much color in her." Arthur had come by her in the halls. He knew fully well that she had been ordered by both Guinevere and Merlin to stay within the confines of her bed, but even he would not heed those words if they were directed towards him. He decided then that Guinevere didn't need to know about her little strolls. He chuckled inwardly in the memory. His wife could be vicious when she set her mind to it.

"No Arthur. It seems that there is another one of my cousins that has come to grace us with her presence."

"Another cousin?" That was not news he had expected. Arthur was not a man of surprises. He was more of a man of rationality, a Roman sickness that was inevitable for him to contract. But it seems that his wife was filled with them. He would have to get used to them sometime. "Your relatives seem to be flocking to the Wall as moths to a flame."

"Indeed they are. I could not be happier." She smiled at him.

He could see that she was happy with the arrivals. As he had long known, she missed home. He came to value her sacrifice each and everyday that passed.

"Elaine has come here under the orders of Merlin. She is a Priestess of the Old Ways. She has come to perform the Rites of Ilyaren. But I fear that it is set two days from now, for when the moon disappears from the skies."

"Two days? But the Lords…"

"Exactly my point. What do we do? Elaine will not forgo the Rites and neither will I. These were present even before any of us were born. They have endured both time and the fleeting memory of Man. They are a part of my people…our people. Since the Woads are now your people as well, you must respect the Old Ways."

"And I intend to." He spoke. He admired his wife's devotion and passion. When she set her mind to something, she would see it through. It was her way. He liked seeing her like this. And of course, she was right about the matter as well. He was King now, what ever that meant. They were his people, and their beliefs were no small matter. He would respect them and expect the same courtesy to be offered to him and those who share his religion. "The two will just have to coincide."

"Coincide?"

"Yes. Roman and Woad alike must learn that they are now part of the same people. There is nothing now that separates them. We are all Britons now. We will honor both ways."

"I doubt that they will be civil with one another." That was a bit of an understatement to be sure. The two peoples had indeed been sworn enemies for the past decades and now they were expected to be in the same premises with each other. Guinevere had faith, but not enough to believe that these two would share conversations with each other.

"They need to be civil with each other if we are ever to become a country. Unity will be vital at times like these." Arthur spoke with conviction. There would be no unity unless they can stand in a room together for the duration of an evening.

"You have just given me twice the amount of preparations…but I would not have it any other way." Guinevere smiled at her husband. She had no doubt in her mind that he would be an excellent King.

* * *

**I have started casting this fic in my mind people. Yes I know, I am that mad. But of course, the original KA cast is carried on. These are the people I have brought in for the original characters. It just helps me imagine things more.**

**Lena Headley - Alyanne  
Christian Bale - Bragdon  
Rose Bryne - Elaine (yeah, I know Elaine is blonde, but I want Rose Bryne and by gosh, she will be Rose Bryne in my thoughts)**

**Other OC's faces will be announced by their coming. If you have better suggestions, please do tell me.  
If you are new to my stories, please take the time to review each chapter, so that I may get specific feedback on all...if it isn't too much to ask...if it is, just hit me on the head with a silly stick. **

** Review! Review!  
**


	5. Five : Innocent Yet Tainted

**Chapter Five: Innocent Yet Tainted**

Sometimes she wondered what it would be like to fly like Tristan's hawk. She was almost certain that it would be paradise to just escape whenever and wherever she wanted. To just soar in the majestic sky. To forget everything whilst being carried in the arms of the wind. It would be true freedom, to fly. She was sitting at the edge of a pond inside of the wall. The water glistened under the light of the sun and Tristan's feathered friend was gliding amongst the clouds for a bit of fresh air.

Her trance was broken when the sound of soft steps crept from behind her. It must be Guinevere, she thought, come to check up upon her. She turned around to greet her, but it turned out that Alyanne was wrong. To her utter surprise, it was a little boy. He looked shy and frail. She had never seen this boy before, but on second thought, she had not been in the wall for that long a time either.

"Hello." Alyanne quietly called out to the boy, trying to peak underneath to get a glimpse of his face, still he tried his best to hide it from her by keeping it down and parallel with the ground. "May I ask for your name my Lord." She whispered to him.

"Lucan." He spoke softly, fainter than even her voice. Upon realizing that Alyanne didn't hear him, Lucan spoke up a little louder, though still a whisper. "Lucan."

"Hello Lucan." She spoke to him, smiling for the little boy, though her smile never reached her gray eyes. "I am Alyanne."

"The King sent me here." He again spoke softly, raising his head slightly. The boy gave a shy smile. Apparently, he was not one to approach strangers, especially a mysterious lady he had never seen before. Upon seeing her sweet smile, he moved a few steps closer, cautious not to get too close.

"The King sent you." She affirmed, for his voice was so soft and hushed that even she had a hard time hearing his words. From what she could tell by the boy's actions, he was afraid of her. She would be too if she was in his place. It was never easy to come up to a person you had no prior acquaintance to.

"Yes my Lady." He nodded.

"Do you know why?"

"No my Lady." He shook his head.

"I see." This boy was amusing. It had been long since she had been in the presence to a child. She did like children; it was just that children were usually taken away from the Lake to safety. It was a place too dangerous to raise any child.

"Are you still sick Lady?" He asked in his shy tone, still standing in front of her, now much closer. He seemed to have reduced in tension, but was still present.

"Who told you I was sick?" She asked, surprised about the nature of his question. Did she still appear frail? Was she pale or clammy? Did she still stumble when she walked? She had thought she had hidden that fact quite well, but the eyes of this child noticed her apparent weakness.

"Everyone." Was she now the topic of common gossip? She did not want to think of it in that way. Maybe the had warded the children away so she can have piece and quiet. God knows how she needed that the last few days.

"Can you keep a secret Lucan?" She leaned closer to the child, whispering in his ear. She was not as cold and foreboding as people thought. She was distant on occasion, but she was not cold. She could never have it in her heart to be heartless, no matter what woe her life brought her.

"Yes Lady." He whispered back. He was still a little guarded, but he had a small and faint smile in his face right. Alyanne took it as a sign that he liked keeping secrets. Secrets were a wonderful thing. To be told them implied that one trusted you. To be trusted was a wonderful feeling. But then again, secrets were also burdens. That, she knew well.

"Good." She smiled at the boy. "You see Lucan, I am stillsick, but I don't want the Queen to know. If she found out, she'll lock me back in my room." Guinevere was a stubborn woman by nature. When she thought it best, she would see to it that it would be done. Alyanne was not released from her room for days after her fever. She was significantly weakened by it, but did not want to lay on her bed in idleness. She was Woad. Such reactions to stagnation were to be expected.

"You were locked in your room?" The boy gave a surprised look at her. The innocence of children was refreshing to her. To a child's eyes, being locked in a room was one of the most horrid things to be experienced. They were still ignorant of all the terrible things the world had to offer.

"Yes."

"Did you do something bad?"

"No. I was…I was just sick."

"I get locked in my room when I do something bad." He sat down on her skirts. His eyes were opened wide with interest. He wrinkled his nose in clear distaste of the punishment. Lucan hated being up in his room, sitting with nothing to do. He wanted to go to the stables and help Jols with the horses. He liked taking care of the horses.

"Well, it is a terrible punishment isn't it." She laughed a little at the expression on Lucan's face.

"Aye Lady. Very terrible."

"Do you do bad things often?" He seemed like a very kind and quiet child. Such children were not sent to their rooms often.

"No Lady. Only sometimes, but it is always Eight who does the bad things."

"Eight?"

"Sir Bors' and Vanora's son." He nodded. Eight was a horrid child. He always pushed him in the mud or tugged on his hair. He didn't like being bothered but he did not know when to leave him alone. Lucan had tried telling Eight to stop, but to no avail.

"Yes. I remember. Are you their son as well?" She asked. She had only met Bors and Vanora once, but she could distinctly remember them telling her about their dozen children. Goodness gracious! A dozen children have been a handful to care for. She always just imagined herself having four children, two boys and two girls. But life had other plans.

"Now I am. But…" Lucan hesitated for a while, having a care on what he would say. "Can you keep a secret Lady?"

"I will do my very best." She smiled earnestly at the child. She delighted at the thought that she would trust him.

"Good." He smiled. Lucan cupped his hands and whispered in her ear. "Well, they are not my real parents. I have no parents." He said as if it were an every day matter.

"All have parents Lucan." She looked at him.

"No Lady. I have none. I only had Dagonet. Before him, I had no one." He shook his head, as if determined in the belief that he had no parents. How could a child believe such a thing? Then again, he was under the Roman's horrible rule.

"Dagonet?" She tilted her head slightly. She had heard of such a Knight being mentioned before. At that first night that she stepped foot on the Wall, she heard Guinevere say his name, and that he fell on the icy waters of the Lake. She knew nothing else of the man. But she did know the slaughter that happened.

"Yes Lady. He used to be one of King Arthur's knights before he fell through the Lake."

"I see. My people say that being buried in the Lake is an honor reserved only for heroes." She explained. Twas true that only heroes could float on the Lake. The Lake was a part of the Earth. It was her very blood and life. For a man to be accepted in the Lake to be directly one with the Earth was a great honor. On the harsh winter of that faithful day, when Lucan's knight fell to the depths, hundreds of Saxons also drowned, but as soon as it was safe to come out, her people fished each and every one of their tainted bodies and burned them. No filth would every sully the blood of the Earth. "Your Dagonet must have been a great hero."

"He was Lady. He saved me from the wicked men." he said in a quieter tone.

"Wicked men?"

"Aye Lady. The ones who made the Queen cry."

"Ah." At that instant, she knew that the evil men were those in the villa past the mountains. She knew of that place and had heard horrifying stories about it. The moment she learned that Guinevere had been taken into their darkness, she lost all hope. She could not urge the men she no longer commanded to rescue her kindred friend only because it was imprudent to do so, and even Guinevere herself would give her quite a thrashing if it ever happened. For the Woads, the sacrifice of one life was better than the slaughter of many. "You know I come from a Lake."

"Truly?" the boy sounded very interested.

"Aye."

"Then you must be a hero too."

Her eyes saddened at the boy's declaration. "No. I am no hero Lucan." She was no hero. Heroes did not run away from their tribulations. Heroes did not hide and cower at the very moment when they could brazen out their qualms.

"Well, Sir Lancelot told me that you…"

"Sir Lancelot?" She was surprised upon hearing the name the boy had just avowed. Lancelot? The dark one. She had not expected him to know anything about her. She kept to herself, mostly alone, and if she was to be found in another's company, it would most definitely be the silent scout. And yet it was this Lancelot, the man she had foremost seen upon opening her eyes that first day, he was the one who told stories about her to this curious and spirited little boy. Alyanne certainly did not know what to think of it.

"Aye Lady, Sir Lancelot. Did I say something wrong?"

"No child. Go on."

"Well, Sir Lancelot told me that you were a great commander from the North, who killed lost of Saxons to protect your people. So…I guess that means you must be a hero then."

"That was a long time ago Lucan. A very Long time ago." To be known as the slaughterer of Saxons was not a reputation that she was proud of. She hated the smell of blood. She hated the echoes of screaming and torture. She hated being called the Lady of the Lake if it meant that she was expected to mercilessly kill sons, fathers, uncles, friends. She had not a choice in the way her life played out, but it was for the people of the Lake for which she continued to live such a loathsome life.

"Well, Sir Lancelot tells me that no one stops being who you truly are. So that must mean that even you can't stop being a hero."

"It seems that you talk to Sir Lancelot all the time, don't you?" She attempted to change the matter under conversation. She no longer wanted to dwell in the subject of heroes and escaping one's self. She was grateful that the boy bit the bait she had laid out for him. He quickly accepted the new topic as if the previous had not even been brought up.

"Aye Lady. I talk to all the Knights. They take care of me now."

"What do you talk about?"

"Well I talk about a great many things with Sir Lancelot, almost everything. I always joke around with Sir Gawain and Sir Galahad. And with Sir Tristan…well I have never really talk to him, but I talk with his hawk and he lets me pet her. I live with Sir Bors and Vanora so we talk a lot too. The King is very smart. I ask him questions all the time. The Queen, I help her when she needs me and she tells me stories about the Knights sometimes and about the Woads. But she hasn't been able to since she stopped being the Lady Guinevere and started being the Queen."

"You care for them a great deal."

"Aye Lady. They are my family." Lucan was wise to know that he had a family with him with in the walls of the fort. He knew what he had and did not dwell on what he had lost. She envied his optimism and disposition. But thus were the inherent gifts of a child's innocence, to be tainted by life's ill-fated circumstances, and yet still manage to move on and revel in the comfort provided by those left with him.

"May I ask something of you Lucan?"

"Anything Lady." Came his earnest reply.

"Will you come and talk with me too?"

"Can I really?" He seemed excited by the idea of having someone other than the Knights to spend his time with. No. Maybe it was the elation at the thought of having another friend to keep him company.

"Of course. If you want I can tell you stories. I don't know anything about the Knights, but I do know my Woad stories."

"Can you tell me one now?" How could she resist such a request?

**-o-**

Lancelot was in the shop, sharpening his swords. The battle in Badon Hill had dulled them to a significant extent that he could no longer put off the task. It had been an hour since he had first entered the room, and within that hour, he felt a pair of eyes staring at him. Lancelot knew it was peace time, and that it would be pure folly to think that the presence was dangerous, but there was only so much scrutiny that a man could take before he would have it cease. He stopped for a moment and laid one of his swords at his feet. He stood up and stirred the fire with a poker.

"Whoever it is, come out from the shadows."

"You have a good eye on you Knight." A voice came from within the shadows. The voice of a woman filled the air around him. He turned around to see where she had been hiding. She came out, slowly and benevolently. She walked barefoot, despite the ground was cold. She had flaxen hair, running wild and loose about her. Her face was that of milky alabaster. Her eyes as blue and clear as the crystal water in the sea. He had not seen her in the fort not once. Odd. Hers was a face he would normally glance at more than twice.

"Well, one must have a good eye to see all the things on a battlefield and come out alive. I must thank my lucky stars that I have two." He said in retort. As he sat back on the barrel of hay he was on earlier.

"Alert and with a sense of humor. I would have thought that your kind be dead by now." She smiled at him as she sat opposite Lancelot. There was something familiar about this woman. How she spoke, how she walked, how she carried herself. Lancelot felt as if he had been in such a conversation before. Such a sharp wit was not easily forgotten, especially by him.

"Who are you Lady and why do you watch me?" he lifted his eyes from his task and looked directly into hers. He spoke as kindly and as courteously as he could. He did not want to scare the Lady off, but he wanted answers as well.

"Why so forward sir Knight? Do you not believe in charming a lady before asking such things?" She laughed. This woman had a melodic quality in her laugh. Almost like a nightingale's song. It was soft, warm and inviting, just like her. Lancelot's curiosity only grew with each minute she took in her merriment.

"I do, but such formalities are forfeited when one of the parties has spied on the other for a good period of time." He pointed out knowingly. There was no formally written rule on such discourses, but he liked to think that there were some in existence. Besides, such a rule would be practical and rational in more ways than one.

"I am the Guinevere's cousin, Elaine."

"Now that wasn't so hard now was it?" He spoke with a smirk on his face. Now he knew why her charisma was so familiar. Everything about her was Guinevere, or at least a close similarity to the Queen. Elaine. Guinevere had never mentioned her in any of their conversations, but it was not as if they had known each other long enough to be acquainted in such a way that there was never anything new to find out anymore.

"Oh you have no idea." Elaine gave a smirk of her own. She observed the room. She took it in, felt it. She laughed to herself in gaiety for reasons Lancelot remained oblivious to. "So, why would a dashing man such as yourself be spending his precious, solitary time alone with none but a sword? Have the ladies of this fortress kicked you out from their beds already?"

"Quite the opposite exactly. I needed a rest before continuing on with the day's events. But you are being evasive my Lady, you have yet to answer my question. Why do you follow me?" The girl had quite the tongue on her. She was an eager banter to be certain.

"Is it forbidden in this new order for a maiden to roam around as she pleases?" Elaine raised an eyebrow at the Knight before her. She was enjoying this discourse from what he could see, and to be honest, he was as well.

"No, it is not forbidden. But when that maiden follows a Knight around, that can certainly be grounds for suspicion."

"But is it not merely coincidence that we both enter the exact same place at the exact same time?" She masked herself in innocence, but she could bite the head off a man if she wanted to. Lancelot had never met such a woman, only Guinevere, but even she was not as lively as this young woman. Guinevere was light hearted to be certain, but she was easily exasperated, thus lessening the allure of aggravating her.

"It would be a coincidence, were it not for the fact that you concealed yourself to watch me from within the shadows."

"You amuse me sir Knight." She laughed openly, not hiding her glee. He could tell that she was an innately open person, one who barely hid secrets, and could not keep her thoughts to herself.

"I am glad to be of service." He slightly rose from his seat and gave a mock bow towards her.

"You must be the one they call Lancelot."

"So must I now add clairvoyance to the growing list for suspicion?"

"There is no need for that. I simply recognize you from Guinevere's letters. The one who can't help but flirt with unsuspecting women, as I recall." Ha. So Guinevere told stories of him. This was not to be expected. But, the description was not entirely accurate. It had long been since he was so promiscuous and cavalier in his dealings with women. He had grown tried of it after a while. One could only amuse themselves as such for so long before finally realizing how lacking it truly was. It took him more than a decade to discover this fact, but as the old saying went, it was better late than never.

"Who said anything about flirting?"

"Actions speak far louder than words my Lord." She pointed out to him as she stood and made her way towards the door. He did not know what made her leave so suddenly, but did not want to stop her from going where she desired. Besides, the smithy was no place for a lady to be gallivanting in anyway. Lancelot was almost allowing her to leave when he remembered an inquiry that had yet to be satisfied.

"You still haven't answered my question. Why are you following me?" he called out to her. Elaine had already opened the door and was on the other side. Luck had been on his side when she had yet to close it. She stopped opportunely , only her glistening sapphire eyes could be seen now.

It was as if he could see her smirk the way her eyes lit up. "As I said sir Knight, actions speak far louder than words." With that she closed the door, leaving an amused Lancelot back in the company of none but his swords.

**-o-**

"Another one! Another one!" Lucan shouted with delight. Alyanne had been telling him the stories she had recalled from her childhood, those of magical islands, beautiful maidens and valiant warriors. He received each tale with more enthusiasm than the last. She felt as if she could have written an entire book with all the stories she had told the little boy.

"I am afraid I have told you all that I can think of at the moment. I can't think of anymore." She laughed at herself.

"Surely you must know more my Lady."

Lucan could be very persuasive when he wanted to be. After all, he was but a little boy who could wrap his elders around his fingers. "Please." That did it. Alyanne could not refuse such a request. His eyes pleaded more than his tongue ever could. She conceded to his appeal and tried to think of more stories he could tell him. Suddenly, one more yarn made its way into her mind. It was one of her favorites. "Well… Have you ever listened to the wind?"

"I don't think so Lady. Only when it howls at night because it scares Ten and Eleven."

"There was once a woman. She was the pride and joy of her father's eyes. At her birth, she had been blessed by the village elder with the voice of a nightingale. She sang with velvet smoothness that all who heard her simply cried at the shear beauty of it. Many men fell in love with her voice for it was as if angels sang to them as she sang. But, none ever took the time to look into what was within her. All that they could ever notice was her harmonious voice. She rejected each and every one of them, conceding to herself that she would lead the rest of her days alone." She spoke softly as Lucan listened with intent.

"Then what happened?"

"She was sitting in the garden, singing her melancholy song, when a young man approached her. She had thought him to be another one of her numerous, shallow suitors, so she bid him take his leave."

"But he wasn't, was he?" The boy spoke as if he knew a secret that none else knew about.

"You are clever." She smiled kindly at him. "You are right; he was not one of the many suitors. He was, in fact, deaf. He could not hear a word that had come out of her mouth. He could not hear the alluring sound of her voice. He had only come to her, because he thought she looked lonely. He came because he wanted to wipe the tears from her eyes. Do you know what happened next?"

"They married each other, like Vanora and Bors." He giggled.

"Close, they fell in love."

"Is it not the same thing?" Lucan looked confused at the contrast he had just heard. To him, love was the same as marriage. If you fell in love, you got married. That was what he saw in the fort so he knew not otherwise.

"It is more often than not, but there are times when life surprises you and changes its course." Those who fell in love sometimes may not end up in the idyllic bond of marriage. Every so often, life does not allow it to be so.

"Oh, alright. Please go on Lady."

"Alright. Well, they were happy, but it was all cut short when the man was called to protect their village against invaders."

"Like the Saxons and the Romans." There was fear in his voice.

"Yes. Like the Saxons and the Romans. They fought until the very end and won…"

"Yay! They lived happily ever after!"

"I wish it turned out like that."

"You mean they don't?"

"No dearest. They don't. The young man was killed by the enemy. Though the girl saw the foe coming, she could not warn him because he could not hear her."

"Ohhh…" he looked severely saddened by the outcome of the story.

"She saw his body. He was near death. She kneeled beside him and sang softly to him."

"But he could not hear her."

"Yes. He could not hear her song, but he could feel it. He could feel every note coming out from her melodious voice. The girl died the very moment his heart stopped beating. She could not bear the pain of losing the only one she loved. But you know what?" She spoke in addition. The tale did not end as sadly as one would think. There would be something good to come out of such tragedy.

"What?" The look of hope flickered in his eyes.

"The Earth took pity on her. As she died beside her beloved, the Earth bled for her sorrow and formed the Lake in the North."

"The Lake where you come from?"

"Aye. And the woman's voice, the Earth thought it too beautiful to fade into nothing, so she took it and placed it in the wind to carry throughout the entire world, for those who are willing to listen to it."

"So the sound of the wind is the maiden's song?"

"Yes. Yes it is."

Lucan paused a moment. He closed his eyes shut and his brow furrowed in concentration. He sat like that for some time before finally opening his eyes, his face carrying the look of defeat. He seemed disheartened. "I can't hear it."

"Maybe you just haven't found the right way of listening yet."

"Can you hear it?" He asked as he tugged her skirts. She smiled at him. This boy was a wonder in himself, the way his face could bring a smile to hers. She cleared his forehead of his unruly hair, to see his bright face.

"Yes I can. But it took a very long time for me to learn."

"Who taught you to listen Lady?" He asked, not knowing what credence his question had over her. She closed her eyes, and thought intently.

"_Alyanne." He whispered carefully in her ear. The wind was blowing all around them, and yet she could not hear anything but the swaying grass. He was so patient in teaching her. She sometimes wondered if he ever grew tired of it. Whenever she asked him, he would just smile and kiss her forehead._

"_It is no use Bragdon! I can not hear the song as you do." She spun herself in his arms and look deeply in his eyes. "The Lady of the Sweet Winds will not sing to me. I do not think she desires me to hear her." _

_He smiled at her, as he always would. He kissed her forehead, barely brushing his lips on her skin. He cupped her face with his large hand and he just stared at her with his piercing eyes "The Lady sings not to men's ears, but to their heart for that is the only part of them that can hear her song as her beloved did. You must not open your ears, but your heart instead."_

Even then, he spoke with her so gently. She did not know why he was so with her. It was only her that he showed such a gentle side to. Others considered him distant, cold, but she knew him. She felt his warmth. Alyanne opened her eyes and shook her head. This was not the time for such memories. They would not haunt her in her wake. "That is a story for another time. Vanora must be looking for you. It is near dark."

"You are right my Lady!" He sprung up as quickly as he had sat and ran for their house. He watched her wave vigorously to her, as she in tern smiled.

"Goodbye Lucan." She waved back to him.

"Goodbye Lady. May I come again…tomorrow?" He turned around and shouted to her from across their distance.

"You can come any time you wish Lucan."

As soon as he was out of sight, she turned her back to the door that led to the courtyard. She walked closer towards the pond, wading in its cool waters that barely reached her ankles. Her eyes darkened at the presence that she felt behind her. She knew who it was. She had no doubt in her mind as to who owned those approaching footsteps.

"He is a very spirited boy." She spoke to the impending visitor. She was not so easily unnerved, but this person was all that took to make her feel so intimidated.

"Aye, he is." The approaching woman responded. Alyanne was more than certain who she was, but the voice made the realization of her identity far more existent to her. Such a voice was not normally heard from this woman's lips. She normally spoke with gentility; it was only to Alyanne that she spoke so coldly.

"How long have you been listening?"

"Just in time for that last story."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"I must say that it sounds familiar." Cold. She was so cold towards her, and yet Alyanne could not blame her for being so. There was more than enough reason for this woman to hate her the way she did. In Alyanne's mind, her odium was justified tenfold.

"Well you would know wont you? It was he that taught me how to listen."

"Indeed. He loved you, but just look where it got him?"

"Please Elaine." She now turned around to look at her. Elaine had changed since they had last seen each other. She could see her garbed in a Priestess's robes. It only meant that Merlin had finally finished her training. She now served the Old Ways. Ilyaren was closing in. Alyanne had no doubt that it was her task to perform it. There would be no other reason as to her coming.

"No. I will spare you nothing Alyanne. Nothing." She spat her venomous words. Her warm eyes were hardening like the winter's frost at the very sight of Alyanne. "You must suffer for what you have done."

"Don't you think I suffer? I am in agony everyday that has gone by without him." Alyanne spoke blankly. She did not want to shed her tears, not in front of Elaine. There was not one day that passed that she did not think of him, of how much she loved him, of how it was all her fault.

"It is not enough! The only thing that will satisfy me is to see your rotting corpse, may it be on or off the battlefield. It would be my life's pleasure to burn it and be certain that I will smile as your flesh chars in the embers."

"I loved him Elaine." She spoke with passion and torment. "Whether you chose to believe it or not, I loved him. I loved him with all my heart." Tears were threatening her eyes but she spoke not.

"No. No you didn't." Elaine stepped closer to her, wading her own feet at the water's edge. She looked at her murderously. Two summers had passed, but time could not quell the hate she felt. "You wouldn't have killed him if you did." She turned her back on Alyanne, retreating to the shadows from whence she came. Alyanne could feel the sting of her words. She was right. It was of her doing. He was dead because of her.

She walked mindlessly back to the water's edge and sat once more on the carpet of grass that lay before her. She stared blankly in to the sky, not noticing the setting sun and the rising moon.

* * *

**Finished and updated just as I promised. It is all coming together isn't it! Haha! We are nearing the Night of Ilyaren with more and more questions about Alyanne's past being opened. But don't worry. All will be answered in time. This chapter, we also see a diffrent side to Elaine. She is innocent and kind to most, but when it comes to her own sister in law, we begin to think that she may not be who we deem her to be. ** **Also, hope finds its way to her closed heart in the form of the boy Lucan. What bond forms between them and will it be enough to save her from the darkness of the shadows that are cast before her.  
I hoped you liked this chapter! Please review and tell me what you think. I do love reviews. They make me smile :D**

**Rita**


	6. Six : Follow Me

**Chapter 6: Follow Me **

The night of Ilyaren came and all were present, both Roman and Woad. The moon had disappeared into the ebony mists of the night sky and all was prepared for the Rites that were to follow. The former Roman commanders were all too less that thrilled to see their sworn enemies gathered for a pagan ritual. The Woads were less than pleased themselves when they found that there would be outsiders to view their practices. Long had it been since a foreigner saw the Rites of Ilyaren, that person suffered the consequences and paid with his life. Now it seemed that they had to receive these Romans and welcome them.

"This is not what I had in mind cousin." Elaine was pacing within the walls of her room. She was not at all amused by the situation. Who ever heard of Outsiders witnessing the Rites of Ilyaren? It was utter madness in her mind. She continued on her pacing, grumbling as she went. This was unheard of. Tradition mandated that it be a Woad ceremony. Romans were, in all aspects of the word, not Woad. She would not allow it!

"You said that the Rites must continue. I have ensured its survival." Guinevere tried to calm her down. Elaine was murderous in such moods. Normally, she was of a sweet disposition and a kind manner, but being a Priestess, she was hardened by the decisions that she had to make. Guinevere knew the life that her cousin led. It was a life she had seen Nimue lead before her untimely death. Being of a sound age at that time, Guinevere could remember her aunt in all fondness. She was not merely the High Priestess of the Old Ways, she was a mother to her children and a kind hearted soul. It was only all too distressing when she fell ill and died. Elaine never remembered her mother, but the stories she was told kept Nimue alive in her daughter's mind.

As Guinevere watched Elaine pace, she was reminded of how alike the mother and daughter were. She stood up and caught Elaine mid-pace. She stood her still in front of her and looked at her sternly. "Breath Elaine. You are turning blue." Guinevere smiled.

Elaine laughed with her cousin. She was so wound up about the entire thing. She was excited, nervous, irritated and elated all at the same time. Butterflies were being set free in her stomach. Beneath it all, the confident and self-assured exterior lay a girl, barely twenty, too young to be handling anything of this magnitude. She was afraid. She was nervous and afraid. "It is my first time."

"And it won't be the last!" Guinevere laughed. How she had grown. It seemed like a lot of time passed by since Elaine left the Lake to be under the tutelage of Merlin. Her short visits were not enough. Guinevere missed her, but since Bragdon's death, it was like she too, much like Alyanne, didn't want to be anywhere near the Lake. The Queen took in a deep breath. The scent of the burning herbs filled her senses. Ilyaren was upon them! "You will be beyond compare my dear." She took her cousin in her arms. "Just like your mother before you."

"Thank you Guinevere." Elaine tightened her grip. Tears fell from her eyes as Guinevere spoke of her mother. She missed her. Elaine never had memories of Nimue as all others did. She wished she had memories. It used to be that she could rely on Bragdon to have memory enough for the both of them, but he was gone now. "I wish he could be here with me."

"He is Elaine. He is." Guinevere reassured her. Bragdon's death was hard on all of them, especially because of the fact that they had no knowledge of how it happened. But he was with them. He was one with the earth now…at least, Guinevere liked to think of it that way.

The two broke away and wiped their tears. They laughed at their red faces and fixed themselves up. Taking the other by the hand, the walked towards the courtyard and on to the fields for the most blessed night of all.

**-o- **

The wind blew a sweet melody that night. It rustled the leaves in the trees and danced with the flames on their torches. Softly the grass was bent at the barefoot steps of the Woads. They tread as lightly as could be, stepping as if they were on thin ice. The women came in the front of the lines, bringing their children and carrying the torches, leaving the men to walk behind them in darkness to follow their light. Each movement was graceful, flowing, floating. Guinevere was among those in the very front, nearest to Elaine. Alyanne made herself almost invincible, placing herself in the very obscure place towards the point where the men and women meet. She had Lucan in her hand. Sometimes, the Knights would almost forget that the boy was indeed Woad. He had become an honorary member of Bors' bastards. But seeing him now, with the mysterious Lady, he seemed to be truly one of the Woads.

They were nearing the crops; the hill was now sloping downwards, revealing them through the fire of the ember's blaze. There was a circle in the middle of the field. It was nothing but earth, where nothing grew. The Knights, along with some Romans, followed them, following the light. Sometime along the way, the women started putting out their fires one by one. Alyanne was the last to extinguish her fire; handing the unlit torch to the boy she had with her. It was now utterly dark. It was silent as well. All that could be heard were the harmonies of the breeze, swaying leaves and the steps made by each person. The Knights could hear stumbling behind them. Probably the Romans. Lancelot heard a whisper. It was in a tongue that he could not understand, but knew to be Woad. It kept repeating and repeating. It was said in a woman's voice. They looked among themselves, obviously coming upon the same sounds, curious as to what the words meant. Suddenly, a woman came into vision, one wearing the same white dress that all the women wore. Her ebony hair flew freely in the night wind. It was Alyanne.

"It means follow me." She whispered to them. The male Woads looked at her with a mixture of surprise and shock. Lancelot walked towards her. Closely followed by the rest of the Knights, they walked to the front of the following _outsiders_.

"They look at you as if you had committed a crime. Why?" Gawain asked as he glared at those staring at Alyanne the wrong way. He didn't take kindly to the disrespect of the woman, especially when she was helping them through the darkness. Was it wrong among these people to help?

"They stare like that because I walk with them." She whispered to them as she drifted further behind, closer to the Knights. "I am a woman. In Ilyaren, women are the light-givers; we replace the moon that has left the sky. The moon does not walk with the lost souls of the earth for she is meant to be in the heavens guiding them pass the shadows." She explained to them. "Lucan, if you want, you can go ahead to Guinevere. I will help the Knights." She smiled at the boy who ran in a scurry once she had given her bidding.

"Thank you for the help Lady. It was not necessary." Lancelot spoke for the rest. He watched her as she moved. The wind was blowing on her, enticing her to play. Her dress flowed in the zephyr like a cloud drifting upon the sky. Her raven hair was loose in waves, treading freely all the way down to the small of her back. He normally did not stare, but he could not help it.

"This is the first time our kind has let in any…" she chose her words carefully as not to be offensive. She did not like it how some Woads used the word _outsider_ for those not one of them. She, in all respects was an outsider of sorts. It had been long since she had lived with her own kind. Two summers. But she was still revered as one of the protectors of the Lake. No. she would not call them outsiders, for it would be all too hypocritical.

"Do not fret Lady. We catch your meaning. You need not elaborate." Arthur spoke for the others. He was always so gracious. Any pompous monarch would not take so lightly to being treated as a foreigner in his own country, but he did not mind. He took to heart the equality he so fervently preached. Alyanne could see that he would make a great King.

"Your gratitude, your Majesty, is warmly received." She nodded, not facing them, keeping her eyes towards the path that lay before them. Suddenly, faint light flickered on her face. "We are near the circle, I must walk ahead now. Simply follow the light and you will get there." She quickened her speed and disappeared in the towering wheat. They did as she said, following the light. As they took each step, the light grew brighter and brighter. Upon reaching the circle, they learned that it was a huge bonfire that gave off the light. The women had once again lit their torches and now stood at the outer realms of the circle. Lucan was indeed with Guinevere, but ran to Alaynne as soon as she finished lighting her own torch. It was Elaine standing in the inner circle, nearest to the flames. She was not wearing white as the other women did. She wore a cloth that resembled the sky, a mixture of white with a blue hue. Her garments had a belt and a sheath for a dagger in it. The men were in front of the women now, sitting on the earthen floors. Some had drums with them. There was no place in the circle, so they simply stood where they were, standing behind the women.

"I don't even see why we had to go here." Remarked one of the _outsiders_. It was an unmistakable voice. It was Lycus, the ostentatious Roman commander that had less respect for the Woads than he with the Sarmatian Knights.

"Silence Outsider!" Said a commanding voice. It was Elaine. "We have allowed you into the sacred circle without spilling a drop of your blood. I suggest that you revel in the privilege my Lord and keep your tongue where the great Earth thought best to place it." She unsheathed her dagger. For a moment, all had half expected her to lunge and stab Lycus as hard as she could. But she did not. Elaine remained composure and thrust the knife deep into the earth. She stood up and all went quiet. The drums started to beat.

_Spirits come forth   
And hear our cry   
Listen, our prayer into the night _

_You've left us in darkness   
Afraid, Alone   
You've watched us stray the realm of shadow _

_Give us your light,   
Give us your grace   
Keep us from the shadows that slowly race _

_The earth is our mother   
The earth is our strength   
She alone can bring us to the rising moon _

_Spirits come forth   
And hear our cry   
Listen, our prayer into the night _

She took the dagger from its place in the earth and raised it up above her head. She brought it slowly down and slashed her arms till it ran red with blood.

"What is she doing?" Galahad was first to react at the sudden deed. He saw Elaine's blood dripping from her arm. It was flowing freely and dripping on the floor, soaking the soil.

"She is giving back to the Earth. We dig her up as if boring her flesh, we drink her water as if sipping her blood, we take her fruits as if stealing her children. A Priestess' blood offering is a way of repaying the Earth's sacrifice." One of the Woads enlightened them. These people were ultimately rooted to the earth. This was not just mere land to them, it was alive. The Earth to them was a living being, providing for the what ever they needed. In taking what one needs, the Earth is hurt, mutilated. This was a mere offering meant to appease the Earth so that it would continue to bless them.

The ceremonial drums started beating harder and Elaine squeezed her wound, letting the blood drop onto the crops and into the earth. Her blood's gift was an offering as thanks for a bountiful harvest. It was also a silent prayer that the crops may be as such in the following year.

_You alone can bring us to the rising moon_

_Spirits come forth   
And hear our cry   
Listen, our prayer into the night _

The moment she stopped in her song, the Woads bowed their heads in reverence of the Priestess as she walked passed them and headed for the plains once more.

Ilyaren had once again passed and the moon would rise the next evening.

**-o- **

The drums playing now were no longer drums of ceremony, but those of merriment. They beat as the children danced around the fires. There were sounds of laughter and amusement in the air. Ale was being passed out to everyone who could drink it. Woads and Romans alike were now rejoicing at the festivities before them.

Elaine had now finished binding her arm. She had tended to her wound in private, as all Priestesses did after Ilyaren and had now come down to the courtyard to rejoin everyone in the gaiety. Being but a young girl herself, she came out into the festivity laughing at all the happiness that enveloped them. She could see Arthur dancing with his beautiful bride among the children. Truth be told, Guinevere looked like a child out there herself as she laughed in utter bliss in the company of her beloved. Arthur himself looked like a younger man was he spun Guinevere around him. How gracefully she twirled.

It was a surprise to her when her vision was suddenly impaired by a pair of hands that covered them. She could smell her assailant. He smelled of a mixture of horses, sweat and a little hint of cedar wood. Definitely a man's scent. She laughed even harder, for she had not known the men long enough to even guess as to which Knight the scent belonged to. "Who is this?" she asked in pure jubilation.

"Guess." Came a soft, baritone whisper to her ear. His voice was relaxing and soothing, but at the same time commanding. She kept her mind on who she knew and who would most likely jest her so. The list was short. If she had not known better, she would think this Gavin, but he was not here. All she could deduce was only one man left on the list.

"Oh Sir Lancelot, you had not fooled me for one moment." She laughed as she abruptly turned about to see his surprised yet amused face.

"You guess very well Priestess. I told you I should have added clairvoyance to the list." Lancelot smirked, remembering their meeting a few nights ago. He saw her often in the Fort with Guinevere. This was the first time that he had actually seen her by herself. "The look happy don't they." He said as he motioned to the previous object of her attention. Arthur and Guinevere were still dancing, only now they were hand in hand as she spun them both into a spiraling laughter. Truth be told, he had not seen his best friend so happy, so carefree, in such a long time. "She is good for him." He remarked as he sat down on a log nearby.

"She is. Guinevere is a force in herself." The Priestess laughed, taking a seat next to the Knight. "But it is your Arthur that has done a world of good for her, after everything that has happened in the past two summers…"

Lancelot saw the grief in her eyes. One moment, she was whimsical and full of life, the next she was in mourning. He did not know if it was in his place, but he placed a comforting had on hers, no strings attached. "Don't be so sorrowful. It is not becoming of you." He joked. Lancelot did not handle these situations well, so he always seemed to joke his way out of them. Somehow, it never failed him.

"Pardon me sir Knight. I don't know what came over me." She shook her head as a smile graced her features once more. The Priestess was what would normally be called a flawless beauty. She had deep blue eyes the color of the oceans and seas. Her hair was long, wavy and flaxen, gently descending like a water fall down to her back. She was not the tallest of women, but neither was she that diminutive. She was indeed the kind of woman that Lancelot once found himself very much attracted to, with that moment as a complete exception. Now it seemed as if her beauty had no effect on him whatsoever. He did not seem to be drawn to her. This perplexed him greatly. "I would have never guessed you to be a Priestess." The words escaped his mouth even without permission from his mind.

She laughed at what he said, with that adorable, child-like, innocent laugh of hers. "Pardon me my Lord? What ever gave you such an impression?" she quizzically, yet amusedly asked him. She was smiling at him with her doe eyes. He gave her a smile in return.

"I had the assumption that Priestesses were women of virtue, not women who pursue unsuspecting men in the shadows." He smirked at her, giving cheek as an answer to her question.

"I had the same assumption with regards to Knights, but from what I see, you are not the pillar of virtue that I had set my heart on meeting. Chivalry must indeed be dead." She feigned injury at his words, coming up with a quip of his own. He looked at her amused face. It brought a smile to his. "Ah, and you neglect to remember the fact that you, yourself, suspected me even before you called me out. You knew I that I had concealed myself in the shadows, and yet unwittingly permitted me to observe you as I did. Therefore I could not have possibly given you the impression of which you speak."

"I can not deny that." He said honestly. He sensed her in the shadows long before he spoke up. He knew that there were a pair of eyes on him, and yet he took his time before he spoke up.

"Then I believe I win."

"This time." He added to her words quickly. He would not give her victory over him all the time. "But do not accustom yourself to such a victory. I will not be lenient if ever our wits should again challenge one another."

"Lenient?" said an approaching voice. "Lenient? Since when have you ever been lenient Lancelot?" It was Arthur. Trust that man to show up and rescue his bosom friend in audiences such as these.

"Negligent to your own knowledge Arthur, I am lenient. In fact, I am even gracious, courteous, impeccably pleasant. I am the epitome of perfection, if I do say so myself.." He replied in jest as he stood up, allowing his place to be taken by Guinevere. He walked next to Arthur and was handed his first mug of ale in the entirety of the evening. He had a feeling within him that it would not be the last. "Never seen you so happy." He whispered so only the King could hear.

"I've never been this happy." Arthur whispered back to his dearest friend. True, he had had moments of great joy in his life, but now it seemed those moments were only tastes, previous of a great life to come. He loved his wife dearly and she was his life's fulfillment. "You seem to be having a lovely time. I apologize that we have not been formally introduced Priestess. I am Arthur Castus."

"Of course I know who you are my Lord Arthur. Don't be so formal, we are family after all." He embraced him warmly, welcoming him as her kin. "And please, call me Elaine. I am only the Priestess to those who do not know me." She smiled.

"The rites were beautiful Elaine." Guinevere spoke up to the party of four, "No one would have guessed that it was your first time."

"It was more painful than I would have thought." She referred to the deep cut in her arm. It was certain that the wound would scar, but such a wound on the right arm solidified one's position in the service of the Old Ways. Elaine was more than happy to have inflicted it upon herself.

"Slicing up one's arm is never pleasant." Lancelot laughed. He looked at the bandage on her arm. It was well bound. He could only speculate that it is part of her preparation, to study a little of the healing arts.

"Where is Alyanne?" Arthur spoke out. It was a pleasant reunion between Guinevere and Elaine that he would not want the other cousin to be missing. But his words brought a chastising look in Guinevere's eyes, as if saying not to mention that name. Arthur gave her a questioning look, only to be repaid by one that shut the topic.

Nonetheless, Elaine's eyes grew darker at the mention of her sister-in-law's name. She looked over blankly across them. "There she is, with the silent one." She said quietly. "Has she taken liking to another so quickly? Forgotten him all together?" Bitterness was dripping from her voice. Elaine watched how the two somberly talked, sitting with each other, watching the children dance about.

"Elaine." Guinevere reprimanded her, yet keeping her voice low so as not to attract attention. "It has been two years. Two years. She has been wallowing in nothing but agony for two years! Will you not give her a moment's happiness and spare her your words?" Guinevere closed the subject off immediately.

Arthur looked sorry for his actions. But it was not his fault. Lancelot clasped a hand on his shoulder reassuring him that he was not to be blamed. He did not know what would come about by asking his question. But it was obvious that the Lady Elaine had not the same fondness for Alyanne as she did with Guinevere. Quite the contrary, it seemed that she had much hostility towards the woman. Lancelot could not even fathom why there would be such friction between the two. But it was not in his place to ask.

He turned his head towards Alyanne's direction. He watched her, from pass the embers. She captivated him.

**-o- **

The children were drawn to the fire like moths to a flame. They danced around it whimsically and care-freely as could be. Alyanne watched the little boy Lucan dance with the other Woad children with delight. She liked his company. The child was curious and energetic…spirited. He was so full of life that it kept her on her toes when she felt like falling down. She smiled at the sight and as she sat down on the grassy fields.

"You don't dance?" Tristan asked, approaching her with a mug of ale. She took it off his hands gratefully and moved over to give him space to sit with her.

"I have danced enough in my youth, it is their turn now." She smiled at him. She tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear and took a sip of the brew.

"The little boy has taken a liking to you." He said as he noticed her watching over Lucan. The boy was waving to her, she waved back at him. Tristan observed at it seemed a weight had been lifted from her shoulders in the recent days. She was still somber, melancholy in a way, but it lessened with the constant care people gave to her. It was a pity to see such a young woman so sad anyway.

"He keeps coming to me for stories and I keep obliging him." She smiled. Everyday since they first met, Lucan would come to Alyanne asking for another story. She was running out of stories to tell him, so she occasionally made some up. Lucan had a partiality for stories of heroism. He wanted so much to become a Knight like those around him. He said he wanted to be like Dagonet. "He would make such a fine Knight."

"I have no doubt that he would." Tristan assured her.

"I am so weary." Alyanne gave a sigh.

"Then maybe you should go up and rest…I could take care of----" His eyes were hinting a bit of concern.

"No…no…that is not what I meant." She said slowly. It was not what she meant at all. She was not merely bodily tired, but weary all together. "I am tired of it Tristan. This is the first time in years that I have not spent the entire evening worrying about an attack on my people. This is what I want. This. Peace. Not fearing if I had my sword with me or not. My neck is sore from keeping my head turned to watch if a dagger is anywhere near my back." She had not asked for the life she led. Before everything started, she was just a girl. She was a girl like many others. There was nothing special about her. She was just Alyanne then. But now, ever since she had become the Lady of the Lake, peace was the furthest thing from her. The past weeks had been an interlude of serenity for her, a peak into the life that she had always aspired of living. Because of the Saxon threat, any moment of this tranquility could be feared as the last. She was tired. "I simply want to breathe."

"We live our lives in quiet desperation my Lady." Tristan began, turning his head towards the sky, watching the stars twinkle. "We live our lives wishing that it were different from what it is. Those wishes are what keep us from going insane. Some have their wishes fulfilled, others die with merely aspirations." He spoke softly. He turned to her once again, his eyes unreadable, yet purposeful. "You must not let your desperation consume you, instead, have hope."

She knew that he spoke the truth. Her life was that of a woman seeing only the shadows on the wall, forgetting those who cast them. Tristan seemed to know so much of life, of how to live it. She wondered how he learned so much, in such little time he spent living it. As he said, men grow old and die without even accomplishing their desires. "Have you had your aspirations fulfilled?" She asked him earnestly.

"I have." He answered more than truthfully. "I lived my life in full back in Sarmatia. If I were to die now, I would die without regrets and without any other want in life."

"I hear the people talk about you. They say you fight as if you had nothing to lose. As if you wished for death."

Tristan openly tensed at her remark. His eyes became, darker, graver. His fist was balled, closed so tightly. His jaw was set. It was often said among men that the knight Tristan had a death wish. He was certainly not afraid of getting himself killed. He was more than willing to go on the dangerous scouting rides that Arthur always sent him to. Never did he argue with the danger set before him. He accepted it. People automatically assumed that he was looking for death. Tristan hated the rumors. He valued his privacy above anything else that belonged to him. To have himself as a topic of rumor and discussion was more than a trifle where he was concerned. "I have never gone searching for death. I am simply unafraid to welcome it when it comes." He said almost inaudibly, but she heard him.

Alyanne saw his reaction clearly. "Fret not Sir Tristan." She put a hand to his clenched fist and turned to him. "I never cared to believe in rumors in the first place." She whispered.

**-o- **

"She must have been a fine dancer." He said with the slip of his tongue.

"Excuse me?" Guinevere responded, halting her talk with Elaine. After an uneasy silence brought upon by the events earlier, the two resumed to polite conversation, only to be broken by Lancelot's sudden comment.

"She must have been a fine dancer." He said, as he continued watching Tristan and Alyanne. They were speaking so seriously, and she had her had in his. Lancelot could not put the emotion down, but he felt uncomfortable seeing them as such. He really did not know how such thoughts came about. He did not like dwelling on them.

Elaine turned her head and followed Lancelot's gaze. She saw that it was Alyanne who had been the object of the Knight's attention. She had not changed since the day she first saw her. Constant. That is how her brother always described the Lady of the Lake.

She still did not know what he had meant by that to this day. What had it meant to love someone for their constancy?

"She was as graceful as the ripples on the water's edge." Elaine unexpectedly answered. "She loved to dance." She said in quiet remembrance of those days when Alyanne would dance for her brother. He loved it when she danced. He would always smile whenever she danced for him. In some occasions, he would even dance with her. She loved watching her brother dance. He was carefree when he danced. "They danced beautifully."

Upon hearing the word 'they', Lancelot automatically assumed that it pertained to Alyanne and her husband. He had heard only a few things about the man. It seemed that his death was a great blow to all who knew him. Again, it was not in his place to ask anything regarding his death, but he could not help but wonder. But his mind drifted again to what Elaine said. _They danced beautifully. _He had no doubt in his mind that it was positively true.

"She does not dance anymore." Guinevere commented sadly.

Elaine stood up. She walked to the middle, where the fire roared with intensity. The music stopped. The children scurried to their parent. She spoke to them all. "My dear friends. The Ilyaren has befallen us. I believe that this night is never complete without a proper Woad dance."

The people cheered. It was true. This point in the evening, when the stars shone the brightest would be about the time when a woman would offer a dance to the Earth as a sign of gratitude for the acceptance of the Priestess's sacrifice. Ilyaren was far from over.

"Alyanne. Wife of my brother…." She said the latter part with a hint of disadain. "Will you offer the Earth a dance?"

"I am afraid it has been too long." She no longer danced, not without him.

"Nonsense! Come now! It is for the Mother Earth. Will you deny her a simple dance of your gratitude. Besides, many of our new guests have never seen a true Woad dance." She added. Elaine was egging her to dance for them, despite knowing the consequences. "Come sister! Will you deny the Earth as well as our guests? Have you renounced the Old Ways?"

She had no choice. Alyanne took a quick glance at Guinevere, seeing her pitying eyes. She could not deny the Mother Earth, nor her Priestess. "As the Priestess wishes." She stood up.

**-o- **

Lancelot was surprised when Elaine grabbed a hold of one of his swords. She unsheathed it and tossed the blade to Alyanne who caught it with ease. His blade was not a light one to bear. It was a heavy Sarmatian sword brought from his village. They were the only reminders of home that he had left, and now they were in the hands of a strange woman who seemed to be scrutinizing it's every crevice. The moment she saw Elaine take the hilt of the Knight's weapon, she knew she was condemned to the Dance of Swords.

Alyanne closed her eyes and the dance had begun. She started out slow, swaying from left to right, trying to get a rhythm flowing within her. She just moved back and forth, swinging the sword as she went. She looked dangerous, deadly even, and yet at the same time, it seemed that grace seemed to emulate from her being. Alyanne almost seemed to blaze as she basked in the fire's embers. Suddenly the drums began to play.

She swayed her hips as the blade sung in the air. She moved like the water, just as Guinevere had said. Every movement she made was part of the former and every move that followed seemed to fit the next. It was mesmerizing, watching her move faster and faster as the drum's beat got louder and louder. She danced around the flames, momentarily leaving his gaze. His head seemed to follow wherever she went. It captivated him, the passion that went through her as she danced. The sword's song sung in the wind as it harmonized all of her body's actions. It seemed like everything she did was interconnected and interlocked. She flowed.

He noticed the expression in her face. Tears. Her closed eyes were springing tears all along. Her once emotionless face now had an overwhelming sense of sorrow, and expression that he had yet to see from her. The tears caressed her pale skin. In the little time he had known the maiden, he had never seen her cry. It was strange to see such, dare he say it, beauty, to be in such agony. Her dance was bold and alluring, and yet, her face only had marks of pain and anguish within it. She seemed to ignite a wide range of feelings within him. His heart broke along with hers, but he could not help but look.

The drums got faster and faster. The sword seemed to gleam in its reflection of the fire. Her actions became more fierce and beguiling as her speed increased with the tempo. She was pouring her heart and soul into it, all the while closing her eyes and letting silent tears fall. It seemed to go on forever. The dance would not end until she had deemed it ended.

All eyes were on her. She enthralled all who glanced upon her. Alyanne took hold of the sword's edge and hilt as she held it over her head. She spun faster and faster, the music speeding up along with her. Her hair danced in the wind. Her skirts flared up, exposing her legs, up to her knees. She spun as if she would not fall. No one could take their eyes off her. Spinning, twirling, spiraling into the very fervor the dance was built upon. Finally, she fell to the ground, seated on her ankles, bowing and extending the sword to the feet of Lancelot. The drums stopped. She laid them at his feet and stood up. She opened her eyes to reveal the misty gray pools. Her tears stopped falling. She turned around and away, heading for the forest.

"Why did you do that Elaine?!" Guinevere pulled her cousin aside. She was fuming! How could she do that to her, knowing very well what that dance was to Alyanne. She had never known Elaine to be this heartless.

"What Guinevere, she enjoyed it didn't she?" The Priestess laughed. Guinevere abrupty slapped her cousin across the face, It was unexpected, Elaine was more than just her cousin. Elaine was a priestess. To inflict any injury on a woman of her position was considered a grievous injustice, but Guinevere did not care. Elaine deserved it.

"She was crying Elaine. How can you be so cruel?! Her heart broke with every beat."

"I thought it would cheer her up. Isn't a woman supposed to delight in those kinds of memories?" She replied venomously. The memories she was pertaining to, was that of Alyanne's wedding. The dance she had just done was one that women gave to their husbands on their wedding day. The sword meant a woman's strong will, laying it on a man's feet was pledging full submission, picking up the swords meant that the man would care for her and value her sacrifice. Of course, it had been very long since it was last done. Very few Woads did it. The dance was almost dead, but on that day, Alyanne thought it more than fitting to give to her husband. Elaine did not care if she ached inside at the very memory of him. Her suffering was not enough. It was never enough. It would not bring her brother back to her.

"You thought wrong cousin." Guinevere hissed. "Or perhaps you did not think at all. When did you become so heartless?"

"I have a heart Guinevere. It is just closed to her."

Lancelot saw the two women as they argued into the night, but he did not care. Another woman had just gone off into the forest, wiping the tears from her eyes. The dance…he did not know what it had done to her, but he was certain that it was not good. He looked down at the floor. His sword. They were still lying at his feet. He knelt down on the ground and picked it up, not knowing what he had just did. And yet somehow…he did. He stood up and went to find her.

* * *

**The Night of Ilyaren brings many surprises. Again, little questions are answered by the openning of more questions. Not only are we puzzled now by Elaine and Alyanne's relationship and the true nature of Bragdon's death, but some new clues are also shed for the turn out of the story. Read it carefully. I know your curiosity will be even more tickled by this chapter.  
By the way, the Night of Ilyaren, in my mind, is a ceremony of the moon (one of the many forms of the Mother Earth). When the moon hides in the shadows of the clouds, light is denied the people of the Earth and we are forced to roam in darkenss. The women in the festival are the replacements of the moon, meant to guide the people as they walk though the Earth.  
Now, the second part of the rites, I have explained in the story. It is not done every New Moon, but every new moon before the harvest. I made this all up, so I hope it is a believable festival.  
Hope you liked the story thus far. Please review.**

**Rita**


	7. Seven : Distraction

**Chapter Seven: Distraction**

Alyanne stood atop the battlements that morning. The sun still had not come out, yet the dawn had already brought a spectrum of colors to the sky. The wind was blowing to the east. It caressed her skin with it's cold yet welcoming touch. She looked towards the forests. As much as she loved being with her cousin, as much as she appreciated their hospitality, she missed her home. She missed him so much.

"My Lady." A voice came from behind her. For a moment there, the tone of the voice, the way the words were said, she was almost fooled into believing it was him, come to look for her and make sure that she was alright. But no. She knew within her that that voice would never come upon her ears again. She was not delusional. She knew that he was dead, one with the Lake he had protected for so many years. She knew he would not come back. But there were times, times in which she just felt like he was there. She turned around. She was right. It was not him.

"Oh. It is you Sir Lancelot." She greeted him in the kindest way possible, trying to disguise the disappointment in her voice. The sun was now slowly rising in the eastern fold. The colors were now blending into each other, oranges, reds, yellows, purples. It was the start of the new day. "What brings you to such a place at this hour?"

"I was never one for slumbering late into the morning." It was a lie to be assured. Lancelot was one to sleep way into the hours of the day, unless he was to be awakened by a threat to battle. But it was still peace time. There was no impending threat, not at that moment. There was no call to ride from Arthur. And yet, he found himself awake that day, even before the sun had come up. Truth be told, he hardly slept a wink since the previous night. He had been looking for her most of it, but even when he decided to give up the search, he could not bring himself to slumber. "Yourself?"

"I hardly sleep at all." Alyanne hardly slept anymore. Ever since she heard Merlin's words, she could not bring herself to sleep. She was afraid of the consuming darkness. She was afraid of her dreams. She did not want to dream anymore. What sleep she got, was merely fleeting moments that faded as soon as she felt her dreams looming in on her.

Lancelot suddenly became aware of the fact that she wore nothing but a thin garment, insufficient for the cold air that accompanied the dawn. She was pale, though he was not certain if it was from the chill or due to her prior illness. In any case, he did not like the looks of it and quickly shed off his cloak to offer her. "You look cold." He reached out the clothing towards her.

She eyed the piece of clothing with eyes half-amused, half-confused. "What of it my Lord?" Alyanne looked surprisingly at him. Never before had a man offered his comfort for hers. Even her late husband was not such for he knew that she was used to the cold, as was he.

"Here, take this." Lancelot persevered in his offer towards her. It was cold, he realized, as he had taken off the thing that had previously provided him with warmth. She was not making it easy for him to be gallant to her, but he unknowingly welcomed the challenge of her sagacity.

"I can't…" She insisted.

"I insist." He persisted.

"My Lord, I am from the North where the mountains are covered in frost. This morning air does not chill my bones for one moment. You need it better than I."

"Will you deny a Knight to perform an act of chivalry for a maiden he deems in need?"

"What makes you so unsure of yourself as to have the need to portray your chivalry or think that I may be deemed in need or in distress?" She raised an eyebrow towards him.

"Call it a Knight's intuition."

"I will take your offer" she finally gave a defeated sigh and took the cloak. "…but only because I pity you my Lord." Alyanne quickly added with a faint smile gracing her lips. "Such a desperate need to make an exhibition out of yourself is a sin of vanity that pleas for praise from that whom you believe a victim." She continued playfully as she put it on. It was big on her to be certain. He was certainly larger in build as compared to her small frame, but it was comfortable and served its purpose. It smelled of cedar wood, a breathtaking smell indeed.

"I assure you my Lady, that many think me a vain man." Many had such impressions of him. He could not contest nor attest to those notions for he knew not which was which. To him, his actions were none out of the ordinary; so naturally, it would take an upright observer's pair of eyes to truly judge.

"But I am certain that you are not and rest assured that I will not be persuaded otherwise." She said with conviction. For some reason unknown to him, he put more weight on those words of hers than of any who evaluated him in the same matter. He found that her opinion mattered to him, almost the same as those he would call bosom friends. But how could it be when they barely even knew one another? "At any rate, thank you kind sir for your gesture."

"It is I that should be thanking you."

"Think nothing on it my Lord Lancelot."

They both remained quiet for a while. None knew what to say to the other. For Lancelot's part it was as if he had a million things to say, but he treading lightly around her as of now to say any them. Somehow, he felt as if she would care not whether he spoke them or not. Alyanne seemed comfortable in the silence, just enjoying the presence of another. But there were things in his mind, his conscience, that needed to be said, however reluctantly.

"My Lady, I came to apologize for last night's events. If it had caused you any distress…" Lancelot felt partly at fault in the whole thing. He was the one who brought up the topic of dance. He felt had he not even spoke of it, he would have spared her the tears that he had seen her cry last night. Strange as it may seem, he never wished her any sadness. Even though he knew so little of her, Lancelot felt as if she had already had her life's share of unhappiness.

"My Lord, please…I would rather pretend it never took place."

Lancelot granted her wish, keeping himself quiet. He thought himself an idiot. Why did he even bring it up when it was cause for such distress? But he did not want her to bear such a burden on her own. He looked at her. Her hair was plaited into a braid that she threw upon her left shoulder, the shoulder nearest to him. He watched her as she ran her fingers on the end of the braid. She twirled a lock of hair around her finger. It seemed to help her think. He wished that she could have left her hair loose and wild like the night before. It became her, when her hair was dancing in the wind.

He noticed her looking towards the forest with intent eyes. He seemed to be searching for something. He could see it in her. She was longing for something that lay behind the thick curtain of trees. She was yearning for home.

"You long for home?" He asked her. Who was he to be told of her innermost thoughts? He was merely a witness and not a confidante to her life. He asked the question, merely as a way of comforting her somehow, so that she would know that someone else cared on how she felt.

"I do..." Came her soft reply. She missed her home. She missed his smile. She missed how he walked up to her whenever he came back from his scouting rides. She missed how he would just suddenly break out in laughter while they argued, and make it all go away. She missed how she would wake up to his touch every morning.

"They say that home is where the heart is." Lancelot replied. He knew what it was like, to miss home. Sarmatia had been painted in his mind ever since he left. It never tarnished, never aged, never faded. Sarmatia was his home and he missed it dearly.

"No." She said immediately upon hearing what he had said. "No. Home is not where your heart is. Home is your heart. Home is not simply a place on a map or a patch of dirt in the earth. It is where all you love reside. It is where you feel most at ease in. It is where you feel most content in. Home can be anywhere of your choosing, My Lord, and with whom so ever you chose to live it with." It had been two years since she had such a place and such a person. She missed it with all the yearning her heart had to offer.

"Sarmatia is my home."

"Is it really?" she turned to him for the first time, looking in his eyes, seeing him with her own. "If it was your home, then no force the Earth could muster would force you to remain here within these walls." She told him. He looked confused to her. He looked as if he didn't know where home was…where he belonged. He was a Knight, the very embodiment certainty and conviction, but many forgot that Lancelot was also a man…a man who knew nothing of what he wanted. She saw him. "You are not who I thought you would be." Alyanne said more to herself than to the man in front of her.

"Who did you think I would be?" he asked with all sincerity. He took a step closer, strengthening their eye contact. He looked into her eyes. They were still empty to him, as empty as they had been the first time he looked into them. No. Maybe he was wrong. They were not empty. They were full. He just couldn't understand what was in them.

"Someone else entirely." Alyanne whispered to him, so only his ears could hear.

"Then, I do hope that your change of heart is for the better."

Suddenly, her eyes changed. She closed them briefly, and then opened them. She looked away from Lancelot all too abruptly. She didn't want to look into his eyes anymore…more importantly, she didn't want him looking into hers. "I have not decided yet."

She walked away from him.

**-o-**

Elaine had been awake since before the sun rose. For once in her life, she could not find sleep. There was a persistent feeling within her, keeping her awake. She walked around the fort for the better part of the evening, only to find that her feet had brought her to the most familiar place of all. A place of unsurpassable comfort.

They were majestic. Horses were the only things that she thanked the Romans for bringing into the Isles. She walked careful steps around the room. She missed the stables. It had been such a long time since she had been in them. The smell. Normally, people found the smell of horses slightly distasteful, but to her, the smelled of home. She came up to a large mahogany mare. Beautiful. It's mane was black in color, and silky, like midnight silk. She was beautiful, well groomed. She had a feeling that she would like the owner of this horse. Most warriors preferred stallions to mares because they were thought to be stronger and faster, but they were wrong. Mares and stallions were equal in speed and in strength, what mattered was their rider. Any horse's ability depended on the rider it bore on its back. The horse nuzzled her neck. Whoever the rider may be must be someone of genteel nature to have such an affectionate horse.

Elaine's ears perked up lightly. Steps. Pacing steps. She smiled. "Come in. I do not bite." She turned her head to the door and saw a man come in from the courtyard. He had brown, curly hair, much like the Sir Lancelot…but his face was kinder, less troubled. She had barely seen him around the fort, but it was also true that she had not been there long enough to know them all.

"You are more observant than I would have thought." The man said as he came in, making his way to her. It seemed like he was the rider of the fine mare that had caught her affections.

"Did you think me visually impaired good as well as deaf my Lord?" She laughed as she continued on to dote on his horse.

"No. Not at all. It is just…" It was amusing how he stumbled about his words.

"Don't worry sir Knight. I am only jesting. Pardon my distressing sense of humor. Some people would find it cause for offense. If you have taken it as such, then know that it was not my intention to inflict that upon you."

"There is no need for remorse my Lady. I must say that you are fortunate that I am impetuous and tactless in my words. You will never find yourself short of entertainment." The man laughed boyishly. He was the youngest of the Knights and somewhat the most light hearted as well. Though he could brood quite well when it suited him, he could be as pleasant as any most of the time.

"Thank you for your kind offer Sir Knight. I will be sure to invoke upon it whenever the need arises." Elaine laughed with him. "It is a fine horse you have here my Lord." She took but a few steps back and to watch him pick up a brush and groom the horse. He was not like most riders she had seen. The way he brushed the horse, it seemed to her that he was doing it as if brushing his daughter's hair. She smiled. This man was just like…no. She stopped her thoughts as they came to her. No. Not now.

"She is." He replied with pride, not noticing her smile as it slowly faded, but not entirely. She was watching him. It was not often that he would have the eyes of a woman on him. He was certainly no Lancelot. He did not dwell on his thoughts all that deeply. It was easy for him to misread women anyway.

"I am Elaine." She spoke, her eyes following the horse's master as he ducked out of her view to groom the beast's hind legs. She smiled to herself, knowing that he could not see her as well. She sat quietly

"I know…I mean, Galahad at your service." He stumbled still. She remembered something in Guinevere's letters. Galahad was the youngest, the brash one. But this man looked not brash, but gentle and calm. She could tell so much by how a man handled the beast that carried him into battle. By the way Galahad was caring for his horse, it seemed all too obvious to Elaine what kind of a man he was. "It seems I talk better with horses than I do with women."

The other Knights left this job to Jols, but Galahad liked doing this himself. His horse was his most loyal companion, next to Gawain. He treated it with the same respect as he would any bosom friend. As such, he found that grooming it was the perfect time to spend quality time with her. Caoimhe would always kick Jols whenever he tried to do it anyway.

"I am certain you belittle yourself my Lord for you are doing just fine with me." She assured him. Elaine took a seat on a nearby stool in the corner. She watching him tend to his horse, talk to it. He was smile at her once more and she did not mind the sight. "So Sir Galahad, tell me why you have been pacing outside the door for the better part of an hour." Her curiosity tickled her brain once more.

"I saw that you were inside and did not want to disturb you. I thought it best to wait till you left before I invaded the premises." Galahad could not have been more adamant in his reply. He had been waiting for her to finish. He did his best not to be discovered as he constantly looked inside, checking on her. Out of respect, he allowed her the privacy she sought.

"And rob me of the pleasure of your company? What ever shall I do without a willing jester?"

"Then please accept my most ardent apologies. It was entirely my fault. How could I be so selfish as to deny you that laughter of which you so crave." Galahad smiled upon hearing that, knowing that he could not see her. He was delighted to know that he was not the intruder he deemed himself to be. As he brushed the hind legs of his horse, Caoimhe, took a peak slightly at how the Lady was doing. She was sitting on a stool, resting her chin on her palms. She was beautiful and elegant, even in such a childish position. Again, he retreated to his job, grooming as he went.

"It will be difficult, My Lord, but I am certain I will find it in my heart to forgive you for such grievous wrongdoing."

"Thank the Gods above that you are so benevolent."

"Sir, as much as I do enjoy our meeting, I am, however, compelled to ask you for the reason behind such early a visit to the stables. Is it not too early an hour to be tending to your horse?" She asked, walking behind him without his knowledge. He was surprised to see that the she was there, looking at what he was doing. Again, it was a well known fact that Galahad did not deal so well with women.

"It is my task to patrol the area this morn my Lady." He answered as he stood up, beginning to saddle up Caoimhe. He was careful and gentle in fastening every load to her. Elaine noticed that as he did this, he would coo to her, assuring her that everything would be alright.

She stepped back, giving him space to move around. She had not realized that her little trip had caused him the time he could have used to go about his duties. She felt the pang of guilt in her actions, as she hung her head low, parallel to the ground. "Then I have kept you from your post. Forgive me."

Galahad turned to her, lifting her chin so that her eyes would be looking into his. He smiled at her. No Lady bearing such beauty should wear such an unattractive feature such as a frown. But from what he saw, the expression robbed her of nothing. "Fear not my Lady, for yours was a welcomed distraction."

"You flatter me Sir." Her cheeks turned crimson at the complement.

"I assure you that I am sincere."

"I will keep you no longer my Lord. I bid you farewell." She curtseyed to him, taking her leave of him as he mounted his horse.

"No my Lady. Not farewell. Simply, till we meet again."

"What makes you so confident that our paths will cross again Sir Galahad?"

"It is not as large as fort as you think it of dear Lady. Our paths will be cross once more and quite soon if I have anything to do with it."

She smiled up at him as he trotted towards the exit of the stables. She read this man perfectly, to the very letter. He was a tamer of horses.

"Farewe---I mean, till we meet again Galahad." She waved towards him as he galloped outside the gates. She knew he could not hear her, but the words had escaped her mouth with little of her knowing.

Galahad sped out in the open grasses of the meadow around him. He could feel the sun kiss his face and the cold air pierce his bones. He looked towards the fort and smiled. "Till we meet again Elaine."

**-o-**

She was twirling and twirling around him. The fire danced on both of their faces, hers filled with mirth and his filled with incontestable contentment. He could hear her laughter, such a melodious sound it was to his ears. To see her so happy was an unparalleled delight to him. He did not move. He froze himself to the spot on which he stood, fearful that any action would end such a fleeting lapse in time.

"Dance with me Tristan. Please dance with me!" She called out to him as she continued circling him. Her very eyes pleaded with him to sway with her, to sway with her to the powerful beat of the drums. But he could not find himself to move. All he could do was watch her, flow, glide, float. "Please dance with me my love." She whispered in his ear. Love. It had been so long since he had heard that from another's lips. He watched her move, everything about her invited him, lured him, enticed him. How could he refuse her? He knew not but to grant her every wish.

He walked towards her, nearer and nearer to the blazing fires. Slow careful steps. He made careful not to do anything brash. He reveled in the moment. He reveled in her very presence, her very sight, calling him to dance with her. She was face to face with him now, her skin lustrous in the pale moonlight. He leisurely elevated his hand and caressed her soft, alabaster cheek. Her eyes closed with hidden passion at his sudden touch. She ran her delicate fingers in his hair, making him run wild with consummate desire and longing. Tristan gently slid his hand around her waist and drawing her closer to him, bridging the gap that had separated them for so long. Still her fingers ran madly though his hair. It drove him to distraction.

He swayed them both, slowly, divergent to the overwhelmingly quickened pace of the drums. Perhaps, the drums matched not their movements, but their beating hearts. Her breath teased his neck and her very being set his soul a blaze. She took the hand he had rested on her cheek and kissed it gingerly, finger by finger. The sensation was euphoric. He took in her scent; the smell of lilies flooded his nostrils as if smelling the flower itself. Gods above! he loved her. He loved this woman more than anything else the Earth could offer him. She was the only person in existence who could make him act as such. She was the only woman he would ever be such with.

He retrieved his hand from her lips, delicately sliding it to the small of her nape, drawing her closer…kissing her. She wrapped her subtle arms about his neck, closing in their already none existent gap. Still they swayed in each other's arms. Swaying to the beat that had already long disappeared.

It is said that a kiss could hold more than a thousand words. One kiss could tell the story of love, friendship, sorrow, pain, renewal, surrender. A kiss was to bear your heart to another, and delve deep into hers. Tristan was a quiet man. He didn't care much for words, for they could be heard or ignored. He relied on this kiss, this single passionate kiss to tell the woman he loved all his unsaid sentiments. His kiss had recited poems of devotion, sonnets of intimacy, ballads of passion and epics of love. A kiss could hold more than a thousand words. The saying fell severely short in this moment. His kiss held much more than all the empty words of man.

"I have missed you so Tristan." She murmured in between her gasps for air. Such passion had they both for each other. Both pulled the other closer and tighter, though there was no fissure to close. He felt her eyes beginning to water. Tears cascaded down her beautiful face. He reluctantly broke the kiss, fearful of anything that had made her so grief-stricken. He carefully grazed his thumb over her cheeks, wiping the tears away. "Do not weep." He whispered earnestly to her.

Her expression did not change. Guilt passed through her. She was about to do the most horrible thing she could have done to her husband. He could see her inner battle in all of it. Her mouth opened and spoke as if her heart broke with every syllable. "I am sorry my Love. But you need to wake up now."

Reluctantly. Abruptly. All visions of her were gone. He kept his eyes closed in hopes that he could return, return to her arms, return to their dance. It was all in vain. The light of the sun had already pierced his eyes. His eyes begrudgingly opened to see, not the fire and open fields he had been in, but the four corners of his quarters in the fort.

He sat up on his bed and buried his head in his hands. Her warmth still filled him. His lips throbbed with the remembrance of her kisses. She always loved to dance. Till this day, regardless of how much time he had lived with out her, still…he loved her to distraction.

Tristan woke from his slumber with only one word escaping his breath. "Isolde."

* * *

**Alyanne finds a momentary distraction in itself, a haven from her thoughts in the eyes of our dear Knight Lancelot. She dares herself to look into them and see him for the first time, but she looks away scared that he might see her in the process.**

**With Elaine and Galahad, they find a bit of solice in each other. He sees her as a refreshing sprinkle of peace in his life dominated by war and violence. She is given a bit of jovial peace with her brief encounter with the Knight. Elaine sees Galahad as a friend now, but what does he see in her? **

**Now finally, we have our dearly beloved Scout, Tristan. He has loved and lost, but her memory is still vivid within him and his dreams. He loves her still. For Tristan, the memories will be enough for him, until they meet again...but are they truely?  
**

** Now I pose very important questions upon you all. Please answer them with all honesty.**

**1. Who do you think suits Alyanne for the best? Lancelot or Tristan or someone else entirely? (I know I listed this as LancelotOC in the summary, but now I am not so sure)  
2. What are your thoughts on the OCs characterization? Mary-Sue? (please state for both Elaine and Alyanne)  
3. Should I keep writing as I am now? Old-ish language style...  
4. Should Tristan find love again or should he remain faithful to the memory of his 'life's completion' Isolde?  
5. Galahad and Elaine? Love or Friends? (Personally, I think it is the former, but I would like your opinion since it is still debatable)  
**

**If you could answer those questions, I would be more than grateful. To those who will give constructive criticsm, I would be ecstatic in accepting them. **

**I am aslo glad in announcing my future OCs, just so you will know what to expect **

**Verinia - Rosamund Pike  
Mylor - ****Paul Curran (the one in Merlin yet again...he plays Arthur there)**  
**Gavin - Alexander Fiske-Harrison****  
Rhyddwen - Gerard Butler**

**and by the way Elaine is now portrayed by an actress called Rachel de Thame, a wonderful British actress I saw in the movie Merlin, by Hallmark Channel.****  
**

**PS: This is my new fic tradition, I will be giving out little pieces of Trivia either regarding the Arthurian Legends, the Medieval Ages or The actors I have picked for my OCs as well as the actors of the actual KA movie.  
**

_**Did you know that... Paul Curran arrived at St. Peter's College, Oxford University in 1994 along with friends**** Hugh Dancy and Alexander Fiske-Harrison! Cool! I know! Total coincidence that they are all reunited in my fic.**_

_**And did you know that...Mads Mikkelsen (our fave Scout) used to be a professional DANCER! Eight years of it to be exact!**_

**Hope you had fun this chapter, please R&R! Creative criticsm is very much welcomed!  
**


	8. Eight : Watch Over Me

**Chapter 8: Watch Over Me**

Weeks had passed at a time. The Lake's men had still not arrived and thankfully, the Saxons were not upon them as well. All in the fort were restless, fearing for the arrival of the brutes who would rob them of their freedom. The comfort that Ilyaren had brought was only temporary, for all knew that security was but a dream of those who continue to disillusion themselves.

The harvest had finally finished, every bit of grain in the Earth had been taken, for their survival for the winter. Alyanne had lent a hand, despite the insistent protests of Guinevere. The Queen had thought of her still indeed too weak to be doing such strenuous activities, but in the end the fact that Alyanne knew more about harvesting grains than Guinevere won out. Few Woads knew that before the Lady of the Lake took on her command position of the North, she was a farm girl like many.

Days rolled by and not a single bit of news on the impending danger. Tristan's rides to the North and South had become more frequent, but still no news. No one worried more than Alyanne. Her anxiety was not only for her confidante, but also for her men. The fear of their deaths plagued her each passing day.

Alyanne lay there, her back resting on the floors of the battlements. Once again, she was looking towards the sky. It was morning, and all the rest were not awake yet, save her and her kind, hidden watcher. She just lied there, still once more, listening to the comforting song of the Lady of the Sweet Winds. She sang her melody softly, lovingly as if lulling Alyanne into a deep sleep. Still, her song was not enough to lay this lady to rest. Alyanne was wide awake, though her eyes feigned slumber. She just lay there in the cold floors, listening to whatever sound drew her ears.

She had seen him ride into the gates hours prior. It seemed like he knew just where to find her. She was happy to have him watch her, watch over her. It has been long since someone had watched over her. Alyanne had often found herself obligated to protect the welfare of her people, she hardly found herself at the receiving end of such care.

He took such care of her when there were no eyes to watch them. He watched her as a child would watch the burning embers of a fire. He never tired in making certain that she would be safe. He gave a hidden smirk as he watched her lying there. He knew that she was aware of his presence. She always did know. The wind told her all of its secrets. He wondered how much she already knew of the world though her times with the wind. Were there no surprises left for her if she was to be told of everything around her? He gave an inaudible sigh. Thinking on the mind of another never did bode well for they were questions never to be satisfied unless asking the object of such thought. He didn't like asking questions, for he would not bother others with that which he would not want to be bothered with himself.

She sensed a movement in her clandestine companion, as if he had shifted from one foot to the other. It was faint, but clear for those who had taken the time to listen carefully. She kept her eyes closed, but spoke to him as if he were right in front of her.

"Tell me about her." She said to him blindly.

Tristan was slightly taken a back. He was the softest walker in the entire fort, and yet this lady could sense his movement however slight it was. He inwardly smiled despite himself and walked out of the shadows, there was no use concealing himself when he had already been discovered.

"Eiddwen?" The first time he had talked about his daughter was to this woman. She was the likeness of the little girl in both spirit and deeds. Tristan found that he was becoming protective of the her as if she was Eiddwen reborn.

"No, your wife." She replied to him, her eyes forever relishing in the darkness of their closed state. She imagined that he must have loved her very much, or else he would have never made a fine father to the child she left with him.

"Isolde?"

"Yes. Isolde." She smiled blindly. "Whenever you talk of your memories, it is always of Eiddwen and never of Isolde."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Well believe it. It seems that I hear more words out of you than anyone else in this fort, so I should know. Please. Tell me about her." Tristan was a friend to her if she had ever met one. He was kind to her, kinder than most. She was known as the killer of Saxons. Though such a reputation did come with a hero's welcome, there was still a gaze of fear in their eyes whenever they looked upon her. Tristan did not give her such a gaze. He looked at her and saw her, just as she looked at him and saw nothing of the slaughterer men feared.

"Well, Isolde was…Isolde."

"That is all?" She smiled. True, the Knight was a man of few words, but surely he could describe his wife in better words than her name. She opened her eyes and looked on him. He was sitting with his back against the wall of the battlements. She sat up, sitting beside him, but instead of stretching out her legs as he did, she curled them and enfolded them in her arms against her chest. "Forgive me. My tongue knows no propriety." She said after a while. Maybe it had not been wise to tempt fate by asking him more on his past. She should have had enough of a sense to respect the passing of his spouse, as he had chosen to respect hers by sparing her invasive questions.

Tristan looked upon her with an unreadable mask on his features. She thought that he would have been cross at her at the very least, but he opened his mouth and surprisingly spoke to her with a soft and gentle tone. "She had these light dimples on her cheeks whenever she smiled. She loved laughing as much as I love the quiet. Her eyes were the deepest color of emeralds that you had ever seen. She had red hair that she always tied into a plait because she thought it all too wild to be kept untamed. I never encouraged it. I loved her hair unbound." Every detail of Isolde was imprinted on his memory; she never aged for him, nor lost luster or glory. She remained as she had always been to him, beautiful. "She never liked the way I walked without her hearing, so for her sake, I would cough slightly when approaching so she would not be startled."

"For someone who has spent more than fifteen years away from his wife, you remember quite well." She smiled at the look on Tristan's face. He had closed his eyes as he spoke, mayhap in picturing his beloved wife. Though she could not see what secrets his eyes held, the tone of his voice held that of a man in love. After fifteen years of war and torment, she could sense that this man was still completely and utterly in love with his late wife. Such devotion was something few men possessed. "Please go on."

"Well, Isolde was feisty, to say the least. She could not help it if things would not go her way. She was very insistent in everything."

"And you would follow her?" She laughed slightly.

"Every time." He gave a faint laugh. He would give in to her silliest whim every time she asked. He sometimes thought if he had married a mad woman, but she was the mad woman who was his life's completion. Never did he want more after all that she had given him. "I had neither the heart nor the will to deny her anything. You should have seen her when she was pregnant."

"Aren't all women at that stage of life?"

"Aye, but she was Isolde. She had very odd cravings then. Once, she even ran after me in the forests while I was hunting, just because she needed to run her fingers through my hair." A smile graced his features, not faint or almost invincible, but a smile that was worth reciprocating.

She had never heard Tristan talk as such, with such a carefree air about him. She knew it deep in her heart that this man would give anything to have one more day with his family. And his words at Ilyaren rang true in her ears. He had spoken the truth. To have had such a life, one would be prepared for death rather than seeking it. "You loved her very much didn't you?" she smiled at him.

"More than my own life."

She knew the feeling. It had been exactly the same with her and Bragdon. Her Bragdon. How she loved that man. He drew her from a world filled of darkness and death. Slowly, her mood changed. Memories. She cursed them and clung to them all at the same time.

"I can't remember his eyes." She whispered suddenly.

"What?"

"You seem to remember everything that there can be remembered about Isolde and the daughter that she bore you. It has been more than fifteen years and you still commit to memory every little detail, but I can not even remember the color of my husband's eyes." She had forgotten the shade of his eyes. They used to spend hours in silence; she loved looking deep into his eyes for it was in those moments that she felt utterly safe. The way he looked at her, it was as if she would be assured for the rest of her life, but right now, she could not even remember their color.

"I am blessed with memories."

"I envy you. It has only been not two summers since his death and I can't even remember the color of his eyes! What kind of a wife am I to forget such a detail with such ease?" Tristan did not know what to say. What could you say to a woman who had just admitted that she was starting to forget her life's love? The truth was, there was nothing he could say. He never knew her husband, and thus the answer was not within him. What would he say to her "I am starting to forget him Tristan. I am slowly starting to forget him. Little by little, he is slipping from my mind. I owe it to him to remember." Tears were threatening her eyes. Her smile for him had faded, dissolved into a murky pool of loneliness and depression. Her eyes gave him a window into her soul. Many thought it empty, but one just needed to know what they were looking for, now he found despair.

"Tell me what you remember." He said, looking at her with a soft expression in him.

"Pardon me?"

"Tell me what you remember, so when you feel you are forgetting again, I can refresh your memory." He knew what little of her pain right now. To forget Isolde or Eiddwen would have been his life's undoing. He gripped to their memories. They were what kept him from being eaten by desperation. He kept hope, so that he would be proud to face them once he had reached the afterlife. Alyanne deserved the same. "Don't be worried Lady, I am blessed with a vast memory. I can remember enough for the both of us." He put his hand gingerly atop hers, and waited for the story that would unravel.

She didn't need to look at Tristan for him to see the gratitude that swelled within her. She had never known such kindness to come from a man of such horrible reputation. His gesture was more than magnanimous in her eyes. She fought the tears threatening her eyes and she cleared her throat to keep it from cracking. Slowly, she began to talk. "He had brown hair. Not brown like a chestnut, but more of a brown that resembled mahogany. It was long, straggly and just barley passed his shoulders with a light beard to match. I always did tell him to get rid of it, but he said he liked the way it bothered me."

Her eyes lit up as she talked of him. Bragdon. He saw the light within her. She owed it to him never to forget.

**-o-**

Lancelot came upon the desire to be up in the battlements again, on the eastern wall, to get a few breaths of fresh air. Since his encounter with the Lady Alyanne on that very same wall, he found it pleasing to come there and try and resolve all that were going on inside of him. What was he feeling for the Lady? Once, he had mistaken himself to be in love, but it turned out that it was merely a connection stronger than friendship, but less than love. Guinevere and he knew that very well now. But, then again, the emotions he felt for Alyanne were of a totally different caliber. Every time he saw her, he wanted to smile, if only to make up for the fact that she did not smile on her own. He wanted to make her smile so badly. He wanted to see her laughing had happy. If need be, would act like a complete and utter fool if only to gain one smile from her. That was how he felt every time he caught a glance of her. He didn't feel this way about Guinevere, nor any other maiden in the past. But what did he know about love? For all he knew, it was nothing but a shear desire to see her immerse herself from the shadow. But it did not feel that way. It felt absolutely different.

He was climbing the stairs to the battements, when he heard a soft, distinctly soft laugh. He had been beaten to the top. It was probably one of the maidens from the fort with a young lad, he thought with a smile. He continued to climb up, being slightly amused of the girl's laughter, when he heard another laugh, this time a deep, baritone laugh. So it was not a young lad, but one of the knights. He smiled even further as his mind started to wander, trying to guess which one of the Knights it was. He knew of nothing of the Knights having a woman. This would be fine news indeed. He started quickening his pace and in a matter of minutes, came upon the wooden door. He opened it, slowly and quietly. He took a peak outside, but was totally taken a back on what he saw. It was Alyanne, and she was laughing with Tristan.

In all of his years, his fifteen years, spent with the Scout, he had never seen him smile as he did at that very moment. He could not find any trace of the hardened killer that he saw in the battle fields, but he could see a man…in love. He did not need to be as observant as the Scout to notice how his years of torment left him as he talked with the Lady. And what seem to be the most mystifying of all, was that there was a smile on Alyanne's face as she listened to Tristan's words.

Lancelot knew he had no business what so ever as to what the two did during their own time, but he could not help but watch. He could see her smiling, smiling at Tristan for that matter. What was Tristan saying to her at that moment that earned such a reaction from her?

Lancelot watched on from the small niche of the opened door. He felt wretched. Maybe it was because of the fact that he had stooped himself low enough to be spying on those who thrived in privacy. Or, maybe it was because that he could not bear to accept the truth that she was smiling at Tristan. But a third theory popped into his mind, and it seemed like the most believable thus far. He watched, spied, just to see her smile a little longer.

But then the mood changed, her face became blank. She interrupted Tristan as he spoke and her face was suddenly set. Once again, she spoke. She seemed to be openly distressed about something. At that moment, instinct told Lancelot to get out of the shadows and go to her, comfort her, but Tristan had beaten him to it. Tristan placed a hand on hers and spoke. His words seemed to calm her, console her. She seemed to visibly relax, and started speaking once more, her smile creeping back.

Lancelot had seen enough. He closed the door, softly and turned his back on it.

**-o-**

Thoughts were enough to drive a man mad, for they made him think, to think on life and everything else in it. He did not know how the scout managed to live in seclusion all of these years. Did he never think on how empty it was to simply go to war and know no other life than it? To be quite honest, this was another one of Lancelot's many laments. He had lived by the sword for so long. Truth be told, he thought that he would die by it in Badon Hill, but for some reason, he was spared by what deities he still refused to believe in. He suffered a mortal wound and survived. Now at last, in the freedom and peace that he had spent a life time trying to attain, he did not know how to live such a life. How did one live in peace? How did one live without inhibitions and restraints? Anger for Rome and a hunger for home had filled him with meaning back in his days of servitude, but now that he was free of them, he knew not how to live his life. What was to fuel him, to drive him to take each day? What would be his meaning now?

There also came another thought. Alyanne. The mysterious Lady of the Lake. He did not know what to believe of her. He had heard many a story about the illustrious woman. About how she was the slaughterer of a great many Saxon hordes that dared to threaten her territory. He heard stories of a ruthless and unrelenting woman, an ice woman, cold and heartless. But upon meeting her, upon seeing her deep gray eyes, he knew that all the stories of her were wrong. She was neither ruthless nor heartless. If at any rate, she was kind, though shroud in the shadow of her own desolation. Her sadness defined her. It filled her every being. Such a consummate surrender to melancholy, it embodied her in every way. It robbed life of duality's balance. There could be no death without life. No treachery without loyalty. No truth without lies. No sorrow without joy. No one deserved such a life, for it was one only half lived.

In the next following days, Lancelot had found it very hard to avoid the two, but attempted it nonetheless. He could face neither Tristan nor Alyanne. He resist the urge to look at her whenever she passed by. He tried his best not to go up to the battlements. But as far as it went, he still could not erase her from his mind. He evaded her, but he could not steer clear of his thoughts of her.

Today, his weapon of choice was a brush and his battlefield, the stables. He found that busying himself was the best way of keeping his mind somewhat clear of any thoughts. He relieved Jols of his post and groomed the horses himself; just to have a little bit of peace.

He heard the great door creak open. At first he thought it to be Jols come to relinquish him of his solace, but the steps were to light to belong to any man. He laid down the brush and looked behind him to see who the intruder was. She was a sight for sore eyes. He had not seen much of her in the days that had passed half because of the harvest and half because he didn't find himself hospitable to any company during those days. Lancelot half smiled and pulled up a barrel for him to sit on. He dusted his hands of the dirt that covered it and welcomed his guest with whatever warmth he could muster.

"Oh, Lancelot, there you are." Guinevere exclaimed. She felt as if she had searched the entire fort for this illusive man. At first, she had not deemed it such a challenging task, but it proved more of a quest each time she failed. She gave a sigh of relief upon finally seeing him, in the stables no less. She walked up to him, missing the fact that he seemed less than thrilled to be interrupted.

"Guinevere, what an unexpected surprise." He offered her a seat to the haystack next to him. His relationship with Guinevere was complex, no doubt on it. They had history to them that none would think reputable. But, the past was indeed the past. They held no remorse for the decisions they made. Arthur loved Guinevere, and Lancelot didn't. It was a simple fact. But though he did not love her in a way a man loves a woman, he did love her the way a brother loved a sister. "You've been looking for me." He asked curiously.

"Yes, for the better part of an hour if I do say so myself. When you don't want to be found, you are never found are you?" She laughed. Ah. There, Lancelot thought, was Guinevere's difference from both of her female kin. Alyanne never laughed unguardedly. Even in what he saw with her conversation with Tristan, she laughed with restrain, for she had been weighed down by her imbedded downheartedness. Elaine laughed with childish innocence, a polar opposite from the earlier. In what respects lay, the Priestess was still young looking just past twenty summers. She still had a light within her that time extinguished as it passed. Guinevere was the impasse between the two. She was neither Alyanne nor Elaine. She was a balance of both innocence and guilt. Her laugh was one that had mystery within it. It told you of what she felt, but it kept enough secrets to itself.

"Never. I am a sneaky little minx that way." Lancelot tried to jest. He did not want to be hostile to such a friend, especially not to one who was a Lady and a wife of his brother at arms. Whatever amount of cad he was, he could never be considered without honor. Lancelot was the best of men, as well as one of the worst.

"At any rate, I have a favor to ask of you."

"A favor?" He looked with mild interest. It was not often that Guinevere would ask for favors. Pride was one of her greater faults only being surpassed by her stubbornness. Sometimes he would even wonder why Arthur put up with such a woman who would not submit to any man, but then he sees the look Arthur gets in his eyes whenever he sees her or talks of her. It is there that he understood. Arthur loved his wife with all the passion and dedication in the world. He would over look any fault of hers, and he was certain that she would do the same for him.

"Yes. Have you gone deaf as well as invisible?" She tried to hide her obvious discomfort in her task. It took all of his strength not to laugh at her at that moment. He had not seen her so fidgety before. Could this favor she asks be worth all her discomfort? For her sake, he hoped it was.

"No, I just enjoy exasperating you." He told her in mocking. Oh how he missed their banters with each other. It was most enjoyable seeing a woman of her countenance to be fidgeting at the thought of asking something from him. It was a well known fact that Lancelot mostly enjoyed getting a rise out of people. He enjoyed their reactions to his meaningless words. He was always amused on how words could make a man cry, laugh, kill himself or bring others to life. "What of this favor?"

"I was wondering if you would take my cousin out for a ride...at the time most at your leisure of course…" He had not expected that. Lancelot would have thought the favor be of menial labor, talking to Arthur on some matter or even ridding out to be a messenger of sorts. He had not expected Guinevere to ask such a thing of him.

"Surely Tristan would be a more suitable and agreeable companion for Alyanne." Lancelot replied somewhat begrudgingly. He knew not where such venom came from. Tristan was his brother in arms. He was not one to be treated with such hostility. Lancelot was not that kind of man.

"No. I meant Elaine." Guinevere corrected him at an instant. Of course, Alyanne was indeed another one of her worries. She worried for the Lady of the Lake as a sister would. Guinevere knew what it was like for a heart to grieve loss, she had experienced it once herself, but she moved on. She opened her heart once more and she found a love truer than she had ever known. Alyanne needed to do the same thing. But she was strong; she would find her way sooner or later. No. It was not Alyanne for which she worried. It was little Elaine that had her somewhat apprehensive.

"You want me to take the Priestess out for a ride?"

"Talk to her, for she does not confide in me." She was afraid. Elaine, despite her position and responsibility, was fragile. Her parents died before consciousness streamed her mind, and thus she had no memories of them. Her brother was all the family she had, and she lost him in an instant to an unknown source. The death had clouded her mind too much, almost blinding her completely.

"Why me?" He said, desperate to evade such a task. Though he did come out of his hermitage to appease the worried Guinevere, he was not eager on entertaining anyone else of late. He could not be blamed for it though. There was nothing he could do to stop his nagging feeling. One could not tell another not to feel. But more importantly, he was unnerved at the thought of talking to the Priestess.

"Elaine has a lot of things on her mind. A ride would do her good. She loves horses." She said in a somber tone which surprised Lancelot. "But I don't want her to ride out on her own, and for some odd reason, I think you would suit best as a companion. She seems to enjoy your company." Guinevere finished with a slight smile on her face. It pained her to think that her own cousin did not confide in her. Her desire to know the truth could easily be mistaken for desperation. The line was thin. "Lancelot, please." She knew what haunted Elaine was what haunted them all, but she refused to speak about it, much like Alyanne. It was ironic in a way, Elaine hated Alyanne with a passion, and yet they were more alike than one would think.

The Knight closed his eyes and muddled over his Queen's words for a bit. She was asking him to take a maiden out for a ride about the countryside so as to discover in her what she could not gather for herself. And to hear from Guinevere that Elaine enjoyed his company. What it simply a rouse to making him do what she wanted…or was it the genuine truth. He knew not what to make of it, what to make of the whole thing, but Guinevere's request was too sincere to be ignored. It was not a Queen ordering a Knight, but it was a woman pleading with a friend. His face softened and a kind expression graced his features as he opened his eyes and looked to Guinevere. "We ride out in the morning."

She smiled at him softly. She needn't reply for the look in her face expressed all that she wished it to. It was one of gratitude and immense relief. Guinevere bowed slightly, mutely taking her leave, leaving the Knight alone to contemplate over the implications of his answer.

* * *

**Again another chapter has ended. Tristan is slowly trusting Alyanne, even with memories of his wife, his Isolde. Alyanne in turn is accepting Tristan, making him a safeguard for her memories. When I think about Alyanne's situation, of forgetting the man you loved, it breaks my heart. We owe it to those we love to remember them and keep them alive within us. Tristan has ensured that for her, making certain that she would not forget those that have passed.**

**Lancelot, we are given a glance on the troubled man that is Lancelot. troubled, not in the normal sense of the word. he is more of confused in himself. The last battle with the Saxons, he almost died, but it was in that battle in which he gained more perspective in life. Is it not true that it is in the face of death that all becomes clear to us. In his case, there is still more to be revealed. **

**And what of Guinevere's request? She has asked him to talk with Elaine. In a way, Guinevere thinks them both stray souls, perhaps able to find the answers together, but did she make the right choice in the man she chose and in the woman she worries about?**

**I hope you liked the chapter. I know it is more muddled and disorganized than what I normally write, for that I apologize. There can be no excuse for bad writing. I do hope however that you will notice the details that have come into the last chapters, they will certainly be valuable in the next update. Many pieces will come into play for we are nearing the coming of the Lake's Men. Exciting is it not? Well I do hope you stick around long enough for that because it is when the Action/Adventure part of my fic starts kicking in.**

**As for the questions I asked, thank you to all those that replied. Your answers have provided me with much perspective. But as of now, I have yet to come up with answers of my own. But don't fret. I will sooner or later.**

**Here are another set of questions for you (I somewhat feel like I am conducting a survey...but oh well)**

**1. What do you make of Lancelot's characterization? I know I have gone a diffrent route than other fanfiction writers, so I would like your honest opinion on that matter.  
2. What of Guinevere's characterization?  
3. Is Tristan still believeable? I have given him a kinder side, but I don't know if he has turned to someone else completely.  
4. Is the story's pace dragging in anyway? Or perhaps it is too quickly paced?  
**

**Of course, I would be reiterating 3 of my valuable previous questions for those who have yet to answer them **

**5. What are your thoughts of my original characters Alyanne and Elaine?  
6. ****Who do you think suits Alyanne for the best? Lancelot or Tristan or someone else entirely?  
7.**** Should Tristan find love again or should he remain faithful to the memory of his 'life's completion' Isolde?**

**Trivia:**

**_Did you know that the romance of Tristan and Isolde predates that of the romance of Lancelot and Guinevere. It is probably what influenced the Arthurian tale in the first place. The story of Tristan and Iseult, immensely popular as it was, was too genuine to satisfy the taste of the court for which Chrétien de Troyes was writing. Moreover, the Arthurian story was the popular story of the day, and Tristan did not belong to the magic circle, though he was ultimately introduced, within its bounds. The Arthurian cycle must have its own love-tale; Guenevere, the leading lady of that cycle, could not be behind the courtly ladies of the day and lack a lover; one had to be found for her. Lancelot, already popular hero of a tale in which an adventure parallel to that of the __Le Chevalier de la Charrette, figured prominently, was pressed into the service. Mordred, Guinevere's earlier lover, being too unsympathetic a character; moreover, was required for the final role of traitor.Chrétien states that he composed the poem at the request of the countess Marie de Champagne_**


	9. Nine : Shadows in the Darkness

**Chapter 9: Shadows in the Darkness**

Ripples. Her fingers made ripples on the once still waters in her basin. Each dab she made on its glassy surface resulted in ripples, ripples that brought change. Her hand grazed the water's façade, creating gentle waves that caressed the basin's edge. She did it almost instinctually. Disturbing the calm, creating wrinkles of change. She did not want the waves to stop. She did not want the ripples to disappear. She did not want to see her reflection on the pristine face of the crystal waters.

It was not because she could resist the temptations of vanity. No. Everyone succumbed to its lures, even the most humble of people. She refused to look at her face, if only for the dark fear in her heart. She knew what she would see in her reflection. A guilt ridden face. Tear stained cheeks. A heavy brow. Haunted pale eyes. It was her eyes that she feared the most. They held all her secrets.

Suddenly, a knock came on the door. It was soft, hesitant. She was thankful for it. It ripped her gaze from what would be her clear reflection. She lifted her head from the ground and looked upon the heavy wooden door that shielded her from the prying eyes of many.

"Who is it?" She whispered into the darkness. Her light had been out a long time passed. The only light in her room now was that of the graceful moon's. It was her only source of illumination. It was her only companion on this fated night. She desired only her solitude for the evening. No small talk with people who would patronize her for her melancholy ways. No prying minds attempting to make sense of her erratic behavior. No. Tonight, all she needed was the comfort of her solitude.

"It is I." At an instant, she recognized the voice that came from behind the closed entrance. How could she have known her to be still in the land of the waking? She had left neither word nor signal that would lead to such an intrusion. Perhaps she had not been as clandestine as she would have hoped. Even her company was not desired this evening. No. She would much rather prefer to be unaccompanied in the shadows.

"Please leave be." She whispered quietly, returning to her silent motions in disturbing the water's serenity. Small splashes of it reached the floor from where she sat. Small spots of moist liquid momentarily stained the floor, but then quickly dried. But it did not stop her. Still the Lady perused into rippling the water, paying no head to the calls of the man who lay behind the door.

"Please my Lady. Allow me to enter." She pleaded with her. Such care she heard from within her voice. Such gentility unique only to her. She smiled slightly upon hearing it. It was as if she was being taken into a world lost within the sands of time. She brought back memories which would only lead to imminent tears.

"I beg you. Allow me my peace." She pleaded in return. It was not gentility that could be heard in her fervent request. It was more of desperation, a quiet, yet insatiable plea to be left in solitude. She did not want to burden her with her thoughts. Her thoughts were that of folly, none of which could be of interest in a woman of her stature and interests. She begged her leave, only for the fact that she desired not for her to be dragged to a matter which was far beyond her duties to her, if she indeed had any to speak of.

For a time being, all was silent. There were no further pleas or knocks or even footsteps leading away from her door. All that could be heard was the sound of the splashing water. She knew she stood still behind her door. She was adamant in her desire to help her, and yet she knew there was nothing for her to do. Her dear friend knew it all too well.

"I will not leave you Guinevere. I will not allow you to face the shadows alone."

The memories of that night flooded Guinevere's being. It was all vivid within her. Sitting calmly at the floor, creating ripples in a basin of water. That night, the night when Alyanne stood outside her door was not a memory easily forgotten. She could still feel the tears she had shed then, her grief freely flowing from the chasms of eyes. She cried then with wanton abandon. She cared not how long her tears fell, just as long as they kept flowing. She remembered then a desire to be numb, a desire to end all her pain. She was a different person in those days. It was her daily prayer that she had changed from what she was. The days of late were not ones for tears or solitude. They were days of happiness and unity.

The Moon shone from her bedroom window. It still provided the resolute light she craved in hours deep into the night. No longer was she on the floor, creating ripples in the clear waters. No. She was now comfortable positioned in her bed, in the arms of her husband. Her lay on his chest. Her arm, wrapped around him. She could feel Arthur's heart beating from within him. His heart was steadfast, calm. His face lacked any worry that it may have carried if he were indeed awake. She could feel him lose all tension and inhibition whenever he slept quietly though the night. He was at peace.

She, however, was still awake. Her consciousness had yet to surrender her to the land of dreams. She knew sleep was long from her mind. Her thoughts still ran rampant in her head. Though her eyes remained closed, she could everything with perfect clarity.

She knew not why sleep had not claimed her, but she did know that it was happening more often as the days and nights passed her by. The nearing of winter had an ominous feeling about her. It was not merely because of the impending arrival of the Saxon hordes. It was not because of the secrets Arthur had kept from her about winter's first frost. It was not because of her avid worry for her kin. No. The matter which plagued Guinevere day and night was nothing of those. The matter was of her own heart and her own sorrow.

One would not think the Lady Guinevere as a sorrowful lady. Many would deem her more than joyful. A blushing bride, a young Queen, there were many things in her life that called for jubilation. At the face of many, yes, she rejoiced, happily and openly. But within her solitude, in the late waking hours of the evenings, she would grieve. She hid her anguish all too well. No one need notice it. No one need know. But it was there, lurking in the deepest regions of her heart. She knew not why it was still present. She thought it buried long ago. But it was true, not all pain faded with time. There would forever be a piece of that ache residing in your heart for as long as you lived.

Guinevere stood up, careful not to wake her husband. He stirred but a little, sleep still overpowering him. She stood up and walked to her dressing table. She opened the bottom most drawer. There, hidden beneath silks and satins lay a trinket which held her saddest and happiest memories intact. She fingered the tiny stone at the middle. She sighed.

The stone shone not as the gems she had now. It was simply a stone like many others. Randomly selected from the grounds of the Northern forest, it held no special physical appearance. It had no luster, nor brightness, nor extraordinary color. It was merely a stone. What set it apart from all others was the fact that it was wrapped in twine to be molded into a make-shift necklace. The twine was twirled in no particular pattern either. It was simply wrapped with careless crudeness. Such a necklace would fail to fetch any price, except for the price she held for it in her heard. To Guinevere, it was a treasure beyond comparison.

Once again, she fingered the trinket. A lone tear fell from within her eyes. She whipped it away with her free hand and instantly remembered why she kept it hidden. It brought back too many unwanted memories. She quickly opened the drawer and hid it once more, shutting it abruptly. That chapter of her life was indeed…closed.

She stood up and slid carefully back to bed. Arthur once again wrapped his arms around her, making her feel safe and secure. The sound of the pitter patter of rain drops could be heard. The rain was coming to cleanse all. She closed her eyes. Tomorrow would be a better day.

**-o-**

The trees were whistling an eerie tune throughout the night. It was howling. Their leaves rattled incessantly. Their branches trembled rapidly. All was a stir amidst the storm that brawled outside of her window. She was terrified of all that was happening about her. Slowly, she tightened the linens around her. She shut her eyes, not wanting to see the lightning as it raced through the evening sky. Tears fell from her eyes. She was alone, and afraid.

She longed to call out, to be heard, but her voice abandoned her when she needed it the most. Help. She wanted to cry for help. Please. Someone find me. Someone rescue me. But no such plea came out of her dry mouth. She was too afraid to move, as if any action would curse her with the storm's wrath. Run! Her brain told her! Run! Go! But she was frozen. She could not move an inch out of her bed, let alone run outside the door. All she could do was keep silent and weep, helpless in the turmoil that surrounded her.

The door slowly creaked open. The light of a candle faintly lit her room. She could see a vague shadow though the linens. It was moving towards her. The visitor sat by her bedside. She could hear her move slightly about the room, positioning himself to suit comfort. Suddenly, but gradually, the linens were pulled from her face, revealing the smiling face of which she had desperately longed to see.

"Why so frightened my dear? Does the storm alarm you so?" He asked her, gently stroking her cheeks, wiping her tears away. His touch was warm on her face, like a silk grazing atop a delighted lady's skin. His smile told her that all was to be well. He would not let any harm come to her. He protected her. But still, the fear was fresh within her mind, for it still raged outside like an animal scraping on the doors, wanting to burst through.

"I am afraid." She said, barely audible. She was so frightened, she felt so alone. Even his presence helped little to calm her already shaken nerves. She tried to concentrate on his voice. She tried to look only to his eyes, forsaking the image of the storm outside her window. Tears never ceased falling from her eyes.

"Crystal rain from the bluest sky. That is what he always called her tears. To him, her tears were only to be shed out of happiness. Nothing was to be gained by spilling them for something as pointless as fear. Her tears were precious; he did not need to tell her that, for she knew, simply by looking into his eyes. He continued to wipe them away, one by one. He smoothened her hair, passing his callus fingers through her feathery locks. It relaxed her visibly, calming her fears. "You need not fear." He whispered to her. "All storms pass."

She moved to one side, giving him space to lie beside her. He laughed somewhat. They were never too old to sleep in one bed. He took his place beside her and wrapped her in his protective arms. She held him tighter as the thunder clapped and its booming noise resonated in their ears. But still, he ran his fingers through her hair, telling her, without words, that she need not fear as long as he was beside her. He cooed words of comfort in her ears, words that only a brother would say to a sister. He smiled. Though the years had passed, she was still his little sister, terrified of storms. "I promise that no storm will come without me by your side."

With that, her eyes fell in lethargic tranquility. This was his promise. Her brother kept his promises. She knew then that she need not fear storms as long as he kept his promise to her. He would always be there to smooth her hair when the lightning haunts her evenings.

That was all Elaine could think of as she idly stared an empty wall. That dark night when her dear brother rescued her from the raging tempest. She was a girl of eight back then, and her brother was at the age of seventeen. She was still fearful of storms and Bragdon would always manage to save her, as he had done all of his life. He never tired of calming her as she cried in helplessness. He was the only family she ever knew. He practically raised her. Never once did he complain. He accepted his duty as he would a privilege, with honor and dedication.

She never knew her mother. Some say Priestess Nimue died of an unknown disease, but all knew it was because she had lost too much blood in giving birth to her daughter. No one wanted Elaine to carry the burden of her mother's death upon her shoulders. Bragdon made sure that she knew that none of it was of her doing. Thus, she grew up, loved and free of any care or guilt. She lived her life as any child would have, in utter happiness. She did not even mourn her mother for she had her brother to take care of her.

When she reached the age of sixteen, she and her brother moved from the fertile lands of the west to the perilous territory of the Lake. They say that more men were needed to protect it's sacred waters, and to keep the Saxons out of Woad territory. Her brother went, reluctant to kill, but eager to protect. She always admired him for that, but at the same time, cursed him for such a decision. It would not even be a year before they were separated. She was called to duty by Merlin, her mother's brother, as well as a great wizard. He said she would be a Priestess as her mother before her. She followed hesitation heavy in her heart for leaving behind the only person she loved. She knew not that the next time she would see his face would be when he would be riding off to his end.

She mourned him with more pain and anguish than anyone thought her capable of. They knew not what it felt like to lose the only family you have ever known. Soon, her bereavement disappeared, only to be replaced by hatred. She directed all her torture to the one who she deemed responsible for the misery she was forced upon. Alyanne was to blame. She was the cause of it all. She was the one who deserved to die, not Bragdon.

She heard the drops on the roof. It was beginning to rain once more. The Priestess Elaine laid down on her bed, huddling the linens and furs closer to her. She was still afraid of storms.

"Bragdon…" She still needed her brother.

Tomorrow would be a better day.

**-o-**

There is always something about a child's tears. Listening to them as they fall is almost unbearable for anyone. Their resonating sobs, their supplications for comfort, all heart wrenching. Upon hearing them, it is as if your heart is being torn to shreds. To bear witness to such a sight is torture. One could only guess why we even allow them to feel such pain, when we as feel the pain for them as well.

Her tears stained the earth which she laid on. Like little drops of rain from the heavens, her tears graced the lands, dampening them with her cold fear. She did not know where to go. She knew not who to turn to. She wanted to scream, but her life depended on her silence. Her heart raced with each second that passed by. Her entire body shook with an irrepressible feeling of utter hopelessness. Her blood ran cold with the thought of being discovered. Her eyes were wide open, fearful of the thought of anyone approaching. Her breaths were uneven and haggard. She could not help but sob the tears she shed for she was merely a girl hiding in the forest from the proverbial wolf.

She kept her promise to her father. She ran to the woods as quickly as her feet could bring her. She hid behind a great cedar, curled herself in a nook within it's great roots and she kept quiet. She promised her father she would not make a single sound. In turn, he promised that he would come back for her. She would wait for him. She would wait for him to come back. Soon, she though. Soon, he would be coming pass the trees and she would be taken home to her mother. She would be safe after that. She would never need fear again. He would come.

Even from where she stood, behind a great cedar tree deep in the heart of the woods, she could hear them. They haunted her. Their screams, their pleas for dear life. She could hear them all, and yet she did nothing but keep still and silent. She could not help. How could she? She was too afraid to even more a finger to her mouth to keep her lips from trembling. She wanted to be found. She could take it no longer. She wanted to be found.

Alyanne never slept anymore. She just simply stared wide awake in her room until what few moments of rest came upon her. She sat on the edge of her bed, looking on the lit candle at her night stand. It's flame was flickering violently because of the wind the storm brought. Yes, a tempest raged about her, but she cared not. All she could put her focus on was the flickering light of the candle. Dancing in the wind.

Her mother. It had been a long time since she last thought of her dear mother. Viviane was the first to be truly called the Lady of the Lake. For her it was not a title of war or of obligation, simply a name. It was what her father Ieuan called her the first time they met. Viviane was dancing for the Night of Ilyaren. She had been chosen by the Priestess Nimue to offer the dance of gratitude. Ieuan could not keep his eyes off her. She moved with such passion and elegance that his eyes would not stray from the sight of her. He called her the Lady of the Lake for she moved like the Sacred Waters his family had been sworn to protect. Alyanne could remember her father saying that everything about Viviane reminded him of the Lake. Her eyes were like its clear waters. Her disposition reminded him of the Lake's serenity. Even her laughter reminded him of the sound of the Lake as ripples appear on it. For some reason or another, the name caught on. The people of the Lake called her that in the truest of respect. The people said that it was only fitting that their leader fall in love with the very embodiment of he had dedicated his life to protecting.

Still the candle's light shimmered though out her dimly lit room. It's light drew her as a moth to a flame. It pulled her in closer and closer, deeper and deeper.

It was so dark then, almost pitch black were it not for the fires that raged…fires that burned her village to the ground. She remembered the flames. It was a sight of immense beauty, and yet it caused the destruction of all her father strived to build. What took decades to build only took but moments to destroy. She was only a child then, but she could remember. She remembered.

The moment Ieuan realized the danger that surrounded them, he immediately sent his seven year old daughter to run to the woods and hide. She could remember crying, begging him to keep her close, to not leave her alone. But in the end she obeyed. She could remember him giving her a very tight embrace, one made by a father who knew he would never see his daughter again. But despite that he promised that he would come back for her, that he would find her in the woods and bring her home. She remembered her mother's wet cheeks as she kissed her one last time. Viviane was smiling at the last time Alyanne caught a glance of her face, she hid her fears and sorrow with that smile. Alyanne knew that she didn't want her child to worry. Her mother was such a brave woman to reassure her daughter with such conviction, in spite of the deafening screams that enveloped them. She did not have to say anything, her smile reassured little Alyanne, no matter how small a measure it was.

The attack raged for what seemed like forever. All she wanted to be then was found. She just wanted her father to come and find her. She was so frightened of it all. Thankfully, the great Earth found pity for her and sent her little form into a deep slumber.

Ieuan found her sleeping inside a nook within the roots of a cedar tree. She fell asleep waiting for him. Alyanne could remember the absolute happiness she felt upon seeing her father's face as she woke from her slumber. Her eyes lit up with an unfathomable glee which drove her to quickly spring from her makeshift bed and give her father a big hug. She felt relieved and revived. She felt safe. It was as is her father's presence promised her that she would be alright, no matter what the danger. It took a decent amount of time before she discovered that there were tears in his eyes. They were not tears of happiness. All the happiness she felt was abruptly wrenched from her upon hearing of her mother's death. Viviane died the night of the attack. A sword was trust in her body by a Saxon whose body was burning for his crimes. She felt her world crumbling above her and crushing her with its weight. She did not even get to say goodbye.

The past seemed like a blur to her now, but she could remember that night and the morning after. It was the day her father lost a part of what joy there was once in him. It was the day that Alyanne began to abhor the sight of a sword, but reluctantly learned how to use it if only for the necessity. The loss of her mother was unbearable, but she and Ieuan carried each other on their shoulders. They would not let the other carry the burden alone. She took care of her father from then on. She cared for the house, cooked, cleaned, did all the things her mother used to do for them. It was as if even in that young age, Alyanne understood that her father was the only family she had now, and she was even then afraid to lose him. Little did the both know that he would die eight years later in the exact same way his wife did.

In the stillness of the night, Alyanne offered a prayer to Viviane, to Ieuan. She prayed that they no longer watch her from their clandestine position within the Earth's arms. She didn't want them to see her as she was…alone.

She laid her head on her pillow and closed her eyes. She couldn't feel sleep come any closer to her, but she could feel peace at the effort of trying to find it. Tomorrow would be a better day.

* * *

**We all keep hoping that tommorow will bring something better, something worth living for. We hope that tommorow, our mistakes will be erased or that we wont be afraid anymore. However, shadows lurk in every corner, even in the darkness.**

**Here we can see that all have shadows in their past, even Guinevere. Her sadness clings to her. What could be the cause of such pain for her, and will she really ever burry them forever.**

**Elaine must learn to live without anyone to rely upon. Since her brother's death, she has had to live despite her self admitted helplessness. She is still afraid of the storms, but now there is no one to comfort her.**

**Alyanne's past has been filled with death. Her parents' deaths are one of the most vivid in her mind. It was a pivotal moment in her past when she decided that she would no longer be helpless, despite her reluctance.**

**Please review :D **


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